#what if he has claustrophobia and hates the smell of smoke

[crimsonfeatheredraven]

You know what? I think Jason should be a bit more unhinged about his death. I'm not talking about death jokes or "did you die?" comments or even the angst filled moments that we've been getting, which I respect in their own right.... but I'm thinking more along the lines of him carrying dirt from his grave around in a little pendant that he wears around his neck 90% of the time... using his coffin as a table or bookshelf...having a stain glass window in his actual apartment that has a depiction of the angel that stands over his grave...

I wish he would be allowed to actually enjoy his second life more...but I also think it be interesting to see him have a more macabre fascination with his death without linking it to Bruce...

[angelicyouth]

Youth ; Chapter 14

⇢ pairing: kenny mccormick x marsh!reader x craig tucker

⇢ synopsis: ❝Growing up with the boys as the sole girl of the group, it was only natural for them to grow protective over their pseudo-little sister as the years went by.❞

⇢ [AO3 link] ; [series masterlist] ; [previous] ; [next]

It was a picture of me at the beach from the time all of the boys and I went to California the summer before sophomore year started—a little trip with some of our families. My brother had taken it on one of those disposable film cameras, the ones where you had to bring it to the store and pay to get it developed. 

Stan always had a surprising knack for aesthetics, his picture artistically capturing the glow of my skin from the rays of warm sunlight bathing me in its embrace. Tied into perfect bows on my shoulders are the ribbons of my sundress, as if waving for the photo with the caress of the gentle summer breeze.

Splayed across the front covers of monochrome newspapers and on flyers pasted onto telephone poles all across town—what was once a treasured piece of memorabilia tucked into the corner of his bedroom mirror became a physical reminder of what is now lost. Stan hated that they took his precious memory and ruined it, because staring at it so much now made him think that the captured moment did little to no justice to the real-life beauty of his younger sister.

To increase the chances of coverage, they had said.

It took him a moment to notice that in the little waiting area he was uncomfortably sitting in, the sudden emergence of various voices meant that the previous meeting in session of the police department was now over. His eyes flicker back at the debriefing whiteboard through the translucent window, the piece of paper cluttered around various mugshots and crime scene photos.

He doesn’t look down at the perfect scrawl of the computer printed ink under it, doesn’t want to see the name of Y/N Marsh glaring back at him. The red, tender area around his tired eyes begs him not to torture himself with a glance that’d send him spiraling back into the guilt and grief he’s been constantly feeling.

Lifeless—that’s what all the boys seated around him looked like along with their haggard and disheveled appearances. No one wanted to leave the building, not even for sleep, for a shower, or for food (although Cartman has been spending an increasing amount of time hanging around at the vending machines tucked into the corner of the lobby). 

Everyone has opted to spend their time staying in the dreary building in complete silence in an effort to await for any type of update or piece of information as soon as possible. Because at least here, they didn’t have to see the sympathetic eyes of others.

The prying questions.

The pitiful gazes.

The hushed whispers.

At least here, it gave them the illusion that they were doing something. Not only that, but the concrete confines of this place forced the elder Marsh to not crack out a bottle of the strongest liquor he could find. Craig, however, found himself leaving the building to frequently smoke an abundant amount of toxic cigarettes in a mixture of both stress and anxiety. 

The smell of heavy fumes followed him everywhere now, sticking to his clothing like a shadow that was overcast his whole body. He’s already had three full packs since it happened and the boys couldn’t say anything to him because the teen was currently made of pure wrath. 

While everyone has inflicted constant claustrophobia to the boys with their piteous stares and tight smiles of reassurance, people have only been sending wary glances at the ravenette due to the ravenous aura he emits. His normally expressionless face has a dark edge to it that just didn’t sit right with other bystanders, triggering their fight-or-flight response whenever they stepped within his immediate vicinity.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” The taller teen seethes from his clenched teeth and his even tenser jaw, shooting a scathing glare at the hunched over blonde sitting next to him.

Kenny doesn’t even bother to look up from his cell phone, an object his dull eyes have been indefinitely glued to since that fateful day. While Craig has been the more temperamental one of the group since the occurrence (he always has been, this is what causes the ravenette to get into a lot of fist fights throughout their years), the blonde has been coping by sending my missing mobile device an influx of text messages. 

He never receives a response, not that he was expecting one anyway. But that didn’t stop him from sending another text because he knew that if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t stop trying for him either. One after the other, his fingers fly across the cracked glass in hopes that he’ll see the tell-tale thought bubble pop up at the bottom corner of his phone indicating that I’m typing out a reply. 

One minute goes by and then five—still no response.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

As like any other missing person case, there wasn’t much for the police to go on. I was reported to have been last seen outside of the building of Buca de Faggocini when I stopped by for some Italian food to take to Kenny’s place that night. It was in the part of the parking lot that had a blind spot to the security cameras, as if my perpetrator knew there wasn’t surveillance there. The last the boys had heard, there were three possible vehicle models that needed to be checked out but they were warned that it wasn’t likely that they’d lead to anything.

When the police interviewed all of their prioritized suspects, nothing came to fruition. There was no one that harbored any ill will or malicious intent and everyone had reasonable alibis that coincided with the time of the suspected abduction. How could there be? I spent all of my time with the boys. 

“As much as I love how popular the police department has gotten in the past few days, don’t you kids have school to get to or something?” The detective passing by mumbles his words around an unlit cigarette, on his way to take a quick smoke break before he returns to the multitude of stacked papers on his desk.

He lays a heavy hand over the closest teenager sitting next to his standing position in an attempt of friendly contact—to a teen wearing a blue chullo over his head. But as soon as his fingers lightly graze against the thick material adorned on the ravenette’s shoulders, his towering body quickly stands up to its full height in order to push the detective against the wall, hard. 

His forearm is pressed firmly against the older man’s chest, exerting pressure in retaliation to the passive attempt to get the boys out of the building. The rest of the boys noisily get up from their chairs at the swift action, the sharp scraping of metal against linoleum resounds as a handful of chairs threaten to teeter onto the floor at the force. 

Kyle reacts first as he reaches a placating hand to settle over the ravenette’s shoulder, his grip firm on the possible chance that the other would try to escalate the situation into something more physical. The air is tense and strained, everyone warily eyeing the altercation.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Dark blue eyes steadily bore into that of the adult in front of him, the baritone of his voice descending into a low growl.

“Craig.” The curly haired teen says, his voice firm in warning as his eyes quickly flicker at the two bodies in front of him. They were in a fucking police department, for God’s sake.

“We’re not going to just sit on the sidelines with our thumbs up our fucking asses when she’s out there, somewhere.” The ravenette coldly asserts, his tone low as his expressionless face keeps its unwavering gaze on the police officer.

The older ginger reaches a hand to the arm harshly pressed against his collarbones in an effort to help relieve some of the pain. “Jesus fucking Christ. Then why don’t you guys take a stack of flyers and hand it out around town or some shit? Make a post on social media or gather information from people she knows. Let the adults do their jobs—we’re busy.”

“Busy with what?! You guys haven’t done jack shit since our report. It’s been two fucking days since she’s gone missing and the lack of urgency is seriously fucking me up. Don’t you know that the first 48 hours are the most critical? As each hour passes, the likelihood that a missing person will be found decreases.” Cartman loudly interjects, seething from his standing position as he reprimands the detectives of the entire building in a condescending way. 

No one says anything and the oppressive silence threatens to swallow up the officer’s next words but he continues to push on. He lets out a heavy sigh, as much air that he can let out with the abundance of weight being forced onto his body from the unrelenting teen.

“I get it, okay? You kids are trying to cope with her disappearance. But this isn’t healthy, and I don’t think she’d be happy with what you’ve been doing with your time.” 

Despite his efforts, it seems to be the wrong words to say because the ravenette exerts even more pressure, menacingly forcing his words out through his gritted teeth. “It was a kidnapping, not a disappearance.” 

At the increase of his weight being inflicted, the adult can’t help but to wince. “It’s still being counted as a disappearance since our men have yet to recover any evidence that indicates she was taken without her consent.”

“She wouldn’t just leave us like that!” Clyde wails at the implication, his indignation causing his closed fists to turn white as they tremble by his sides. 

Stan’s footsteps thunder forward when unable to keep its owner motionless for any longer, the football player’s build appearing in the unoccupied space behind Craig. There’s a deep glare on his face, his mouth curled into a sneer as it venomously spits out at the quickly panicking detective. “You fucking owe us, Yates.”

Thick eyebrows that were previously furrowed at the rapidly escalating situation creases even further at the elder Marsh’s words. “What the fuck for? I don’t have to do shit for a bunch of kids.”

“Stan’s right. We busted that fucking meth lab for you when we were younger, remember? You sent us undercover to a fucking strip club. We even took down the leader of Colorado’s largest drug cartel.” Kenny interjects, challenging the highest-ranked officer with a lifted eyebrow.

“Ack! What?!” The blonde’s words send a wave of shock through Tweek’s already stressed out body, never having heard about the game of detectives they played as kids that quickly turned into reality.

Harrison immediately cuts through the brief pause before anyone can speak up, bringing his unoccupied hand to squeeze at the skin between his eyes in exasperation. He realizes that he’s steadily losing power over the teens and the situation which is decidedly not good. 

“Look. Stanley, was it? It’s basic knowledge that you can’t be on the case when you have some sort of personal attachment to it. Conflicts of interest cause issues and could potentially hinder the progress of the investigation.”

“But we can help. Just let us sit in during the meetings, sir. Please.” The knuckles on Butters’ hands are already rubbed raw from the persistent wave of anxiety of these past few days, his voice weak and wobbly through the permanent lump now stuck in his throat.

Detective Yates takes the time to observe the group in front of him, noting the sunken skin on their too young faces. They’re deeply ringed with dark circles, a vivid shade of purple against their skin and glaringly obviously in its contrast to their canvas.

When his thoughtful eyes meet that of Stan’s, he observes the crumpled shirt and tousled bleached locks that go in all directions from his fingers repeatedly running through it. He tiredly sighs as he runs a weary hand through his fatigued face, feeling tired beyond his years. 

This is why he never wanted any kids.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure

Nothing ever lasts forever

“N/N likes this song a lot.” Kenny wistfully says out into the cold Colorado air, his tired form lazily sitting on the hard curb of the sidewalk as wisps of air form small clouds after his every word.

His hands rest behind his body for support, the gravel of the asphalt uncomfortably digging into his palms. The blonde sits next to where the Tucker’s family car is carefully parked, the driver’s door opened to allow the faint music playing inside of it to spill out into the quiet afternoon.

Despite what Yates had said to the boys about school, it was now spring break for the multitude of teens attending South Park High. And even if they weren’t blessedly granted a few days off from class, the group would have stayed camped out in the police department regardless of what anyone said to them.

We were all supposed to rent out a cabin to stay at for vacation, Kenny bitterly thinks to himself when he sees a few kids from school laugh stress free with one another as they leisurely walk by.

When the heavy front doors of the building behind him opens, he doesn’t turn his head as he stares out at the clouds languidly swimming in the sky. It provides him small comfort to know that no matter where I am in this world, that at least I’m under the same sky as my blonde lover.

“Heard you boys got Sergeant Yates to let you in on our meetings.” Lieutenant Dawson joins, lighting his own cigarette as he leans against the dirty wall of discolored bricks.

There’s a stretch of silence, tendrils of smoke spilling out of the adult’s mouth and adding to the already pungent smell spreading out into the parking lot. He tries again around the rolled up nicotine lit up in his mouth, “Tell me about her.”

“Don’t.” Craig rigidly tells Kenny from his seated position next to the blonde, his own cancer stick lit up between soft pink lips. He doesn’t move his head as he glares at the intrusive officer over the din of the toxic fumes he emits, his hand rising to flash the intruder a vulgar middle finger. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, I want to know more about the girl that caught the ever emotionless Tucker’s attention. What makes her so amazing that you two are willing to be with her at the same time?” The older male tries to encourage the two teens despite sounding disinterested, his fingers tapping away on the glass screen of his cellphone. 

The boys had to be honest with their relationship during their interrogations, not wanting to risk the investigation if they withheld any information. At the seemingly innocent question, both Kenny and Craig’s eyes grow distant and nostalgic as they think about the missing person from their trio.

Everything, they simultaneously think at the question. What wasn't all things wonderful about Y/N Marsh? She's absolutely breathtaking.

The onslaught of happy memories come in like a flood within the confines of their minds, providing a short respite against the constant torment the last few days have been. If only so little, a now rare quirk appears at the corner of their lips when remembering their significant other.

The way she slightly crinkles her nose with a cute pout on her face every time Cartman says something she disagrees with.

The small quirk to her lips when she listens to Tweek spout his conspiracies and theories rooted in deep paranoia.

How she tries to fight the smile threatening to break through her expression when her brother says something even remotely funny because she doesn't want to feed his already big ego.

“... It makes me so fucking angry. How the world just continues on without her. Like no one realizes that a person like her is gone.” The ravenette mumbles when he stubs out his cigarette, the flickering embers dying out when he’s quickly brought back to the reality of now. 

Craig thinks about how when we were all just kids and would wish that time would hurry up so that we’d be ‘grown’ and could do more things that were restricted by our ages. But now that we are, to the ravenette it seems like time is moving too fast without me by his side.

It’s hard not to realize how much he should have appreciated the moments together more. Isn’t it funny how common it is to not cherish what is before us, until it no longer is? 

That’s absolute bullshit, he bitterly thinks.

“Yeah… All I have of her now are memories. And even if I had every trace of her erased from my mind, I’m pretty sure my heart would still ache for her.” Kenny’s hushed voice resounds in the otherwise empty parking area, his words almost a whisper against the wind in his painful yearning.

Sometimes Kenny feels like he’s incapable of crying anymore but he’s always proven wrong. It’s only been two days but it hurts to think. Because what were once precious memories that lit up his body with joy are now tainted with sadness. It hurts to think about the last time of anything: the last time we touched, the last moment he heard my voice—just about anything and everything.

“I can’t fucking sleep. If I do, I dream of her and it just makes me want to reach out to her even though I know I can’t.” He softly continues as his words steadily become thicker with the threat of tears.

It’s hard to do things that we once always did together, the blonde and ravenette think.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

When the boys enter the boardroom to join with the rest of the officers, they’re presented with a reprimanding glare from Detective Yates as they slink their bodies towards the back of the room to lean against the wall. With the last members finally joining (unofficially), the ginger begins the meeting by relaying whatever news was at the precinct.

A couple of new cases got debriefed, one involving a string of broken into cars in the local area during the last couple of weeks and another about possible malpractice at the town’s Planned Parenthood Clinic. It isn’t until the sergeant at the head of the room begins to notify those listening of the ones that got pushed back on priority due to the lack of evidence, that the group of teens get brought down to Earth away from their distracting thoughts.

Collectively, they all flinch when they hear the syllables that make up my name among that list. Relaying this information invokes a plethora of clenched fists and creased eyebrows, the elder Marsh about to open his mouth when a sharp ringtone suddenly cuts through the air.

“Kenny! It’s your phone!” Butters exclaims after locating the source of noise, tufts of his blonde hair getting ruffled at the movement created by his searching head.

The spoken to blonde’s response is delayed in a mixture of apathy of his surroundings and fatigue, his mind taking a few seconds to register the words aimed at him. “What..? Oh shit, my bad.”

Kyle stammers out a hurried apology to the irritated expressions and glares getting shot at the group for the interruption, his words quick at reassuring the officers that are turned at their seats to look at the noise at the back of the room. Ring adorned hands fumble to pat at his orange parka’s pockets but they come up empty handed before he relocates them to his pants. 

Tremors of embarrassment causes the blonde to shake as he quickly pulls out the vibrating mobile device, the teen cursing himself at possibly fucking up their chances to attend the meeting. The internal admonishment comes to a quick halt, however. 

It’s as if his body was suddenly hit by an oncoming bullet train with how all the air in his body gets knocked out at once. Because there, on the glaring brightness of his cell phone screen is my caller ID. 

Sleeping Beauty, it says.

His longer fingers freeze over the broken glass of his cellphone, disbelieving eyes settling onto a picture of the tranquil expression on my face. My features are calm with sleep during a movie night with the boys, the light from the television screen illuminating a beautiful glow of multiple ethereal colors onto my relaxed visage.

You look like an angel when you dream, he had softly whispered onto the skin of my forehead when my eyes blearily fluttered open. It was one of the only things Craig had agreed with him on that night.

“Well? What the fuck are you doing, McCormick! Hang up!” Yates barks out from the front of the room, his temperament heavily bleeding into his words as he crosses his arms in impatience.

Kyle frantically pushes his way over to Kenny when he sees his motionless body, his hands clutched tightly at the device but suspended in midair. He’s about to reach for the still screaming phone within the blonde’s grip before he sharply inhales. “Oh my god…”

“Turn it off or get the fuck out, McCormick. I’m not telling you again!” The thundering voice echoes out into the room that is slowly losing their collective patience, the disruption prolonging the meeting and keeping them away from their work.

“It’s… It’s Y/N!” Clyde wails out loud, tears already forming in the more emotionally sensitive teen’s eyes when he looks over Kenny’s shoulder. The grumbles under the breaths of irritated officers and the furious shifting in their seats stops at the brunette’s words.

The revelation causes a cacophony of noise in the meeting room, as if someone flipped a switch. Barked orders get let out as people begin to file out, the group assigned to the case rushing around to set up recording devices and phone tracking equipment. 

Fingers violently shake to swipe at the screen, to command the cellphone to answer the call and to quickly put it on speakerphone. What was once a sea of sudden madness becomes eerily tranquil like a lake, its sudden silence tainted with apprehension and bated breaths.

“… Princess?” Kenny silently whispers, the boys crowding around the blonde in nervous anticipation.

Rustling on the other end can be heard as everyone strains their ears, sweat beginning to bead at everyone’s temples at what could possibly be the first of what seems to be a decade of radio silence. “Ken!”

At the sound of my familiar voice, a sob rips through all of their throats. It feels as if their muscles simultaneously relax for the first time in what feels like forever at the melodic sound of my greeting. 

“N/N! Oh my fucking god, are you okay?” Kyle brings his face close to the blonde’s suspended hand, relief transparent as he tries to take over the call from stunned and disbelieving bodies.

“Where the fuck are you?!” Cartman exclaims before I can answer, frustration tinting through his ease at finally getting into contact with me.

“What the hell happened?” It’s Tolkien’s smooth voice this time, both of his hands reaching up to scrub at his already swollen eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Butters pipes in but in contrast to the member of the group that last spoke up, he freely allows the salty wetness to coat at the skin of his cheeks.

For the first time in days, Tweek isn’t painfully tugging at the blonde locks on his head or gritting his teeth to the absolute relief of his jaw. “Ngh! Do you know who—”

I laugh and for the boys, they can’t help the smile that finally makes its long awaited appearance on their faces when they hear the sound despite the distortion the phone causes. “Stop! Stop. I can’t hear when you guys talk all at once, you know?” 

They wait for me to contain my giggles and despite the fact that they can’t see my face, they can all just imagine the bright smile that would normally accompany such a sound. “Jeez, you guys. Is everyone there?”

“Of course. We’ve all been together, looking for you. You know none of us would sit still, especially when it comes to you. Sheesh N/N, did you suddenly forget about how much you mean to us?” My brother has a distressed yet wistful expression on his face, pain etched into identical but more masculine features of the other person on the phone.

I lightly chuckle but it only serves to painfully grip at their hearts, a reminder of what was missing from their group. “Yeah, you guys have always been overprotective.” 

“What do you expect? You’re our little sister, crybaby or not.” Cartman says in his usual snark but there’s a softness so rarely seen hiding in between his words. 

We all gently laugh at the familiar jeer, the guys shooting Clyde teasing yet sympathetic looks as he loudly sobs into the sleeves of his already damp letterman jacket. His wails are unabashed in their volume and while this normally would’ve called for their playful bullying at his crybaby tendencies, they don’t say anything.

The boys watch as Cartman tries hard to keep up his cocky smirking, the larger teen only able to keep it for just a second before it quickly crumbles back to the downturn of melancholic lips. They don’t comment even when it begins to dangerously wobble, his eyes clenched shut to prevent his eyes from further drowning his face with tears.

“… Let me hear Craig.” I softly say, not having heard my raven haired lover since the call started. He’s always had a hard time expressing his emotions and despite the situation I’ve found myself in, I’m most worried at how he’s been processing everything—at how he’s been handling the loss.

The boys weakly push his body from where he’s been holding himself towards the back of the group crowded around the blonde’s phone. Kenny slings his arm around the taller teen when he nears, forcing him into place and with no chance to escape.

“Y/N.” He says thickly through his grief, alerting me of his presence.

“Oh, baby.” I affectionately coo when I hear his wet words and the apparent strain in his throat from trying his absolute hardest to keep himself from crying. It’s like the dam finally breaks at the familiar cadence of my voice because all too soon, I hear the heart wrenching sobs of the ravenette. 

“Don’t cry!”

“I can't. How do you expect me not to when my person is gone?” Kenny brings the taller teens wet face against his shoulder for support, the blonde’s eyebrows uncomfortably creased at the disturbing sight. In all the years they’ve known each other, Craig has never cried.

“I’m here, I’m here.” I sniff into the phone, quickly trying to reassure the distressed teen.

But he can’t hold the weeping that racks through his entire body any longer, no matter how hard he tries. It’s the type that’s full of anguish and pain—so raw in its emotions and grief. “No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me, N/N. I miss you. Just come back, please. I don’t think I can do this without you anymore. It fucking hurts.”

“I know, love. I know... Hey.” I call to get his attention when the sound of his vocalized hurt only further escalates, bordering on hysterical. I wait until he’s calmed down enough to just hiccups, patient as the other boys bring their hands to the back of the ravenette and rub soothing circles onto his body.

“You have Kenny, you’ll be alright. Be there for each other when I’m not there, okay? Promise to take care of each other, for me.” My voice cracks midway and at this point the group’s sniffles are all that can be heard in the meeting room, every other officer watching in silent pity.

Stan clears his throat, willing his rough voice to cooperate with him. “N/N. Are you okay? Please, talk to me. Tell me anything.” Although happy beyond belief to finally be able to hear his other half again, he can’t help but to be wary at the call. There’s a slight distrust there, suspicious in wondering if the allowance of communication meant that they had a demand or negotiation to make. 

“I can't say much, they’re here with me.” 

They? That could be anybody, everyone in the room thinks in dread. It could be multiple people or just one person involved with the disappearance. It could be male, female, or other and that doesn’t help with deducting the pool of suspects at all.

“I'm okay, though. Don’t worry about me, I just miss you all.” A wave of confusion hits the boys at once because why the hell wouldn’t they worry about me? Their minds go blank at the ridiculous request, almost appalled at my words. 

“We miss you too, babe. Of course we do.” Kenny rushes to reassure me, not wanting to further upset his already distressed significant other or cause an insecurity that he wouldn’t be able to properly sooth due to my unknown whereabouts. 

“It’s weird, isn’t it? I don't think I've ever gone this long without seeing any of you.” No one says anything when I softly speak into the phone because it’s true. And it’s not right, it’s just as absurd as someone claiming that the Earth is flat. The group as a whole is like a given fact and right now, a puzzle piece is missing and the boys are frantic in finding it.

“They let me call on the one condition that I couldn't say anything. This is only so I can hear your voices.”

Jimmy, ever the comedian, tries to lighten up the tense air when the oppressing silence quickly fills up the room again. “W-wuh-what? Already annoyed y-yuh-your captor with your a-ah-award winning personality, baby Marsh?”

I laugh out loud but it sounds broken, the strangled noise sounding more like a sob. “Shut up, you cripple. How are you guys?” And just like that, the boys go back to the recent development of their default expression of frowning. 

Because really..? What exactly was there to say? 

The teens were at a loss for words. They wondered if they could actually talk like it was a normal conversation given the circumstances and the unanswered questions burning through their minds. No one knew what to say—no one knew how to discuss mundane things like the weather or their day, like nothing was out of the ordinary given the elephant in the room. 

At the answering silence, I’m meek as I speak up again. “Stan, can you do something for me..? Can you tell mom, dad, and Shelley that I love them?” 

Everyone immediately stands at attention as they feel their stomachs sink because those words were dangerous.

“What? No, fuck you.” He starts getting increasingly hysterical at the implications of my request. Stan knew it was unfair to get angry but his heart begins to quickly hammer in his chest, cold sweat breaking throughout his whole body because he was beginning to get terrified for his baby sister. 

He emphasizes, all of the blood draining from his face. “If you want to say that then you tell them yourself, in person.”

“Yeah, okay. I'm sorry. I will, it’s just been a while since I’ve said that to them and I just want them to know that I'm okay.” I’m quick to try to bring back a semblance of normalcy back to the conversation, as if it was a routine phone call from a friend that went away for a trip or something. As if it was a casual request to give someone they were missing their love while they were out of town.

“Is Karen doing fine? She's eating properly, right? I don’t want her to worry—Tricia too. I know that they have tests coming up, so please make sure that they’re getting enough sleep and that they focus on their own health. They already worry enough during this time of the year and I don't need them to be distracted with my well being on top of everything else.” I begin to chat like normal, rambling over the phone. 

But it wasn’t normal, because everyone could hear a small sense of urgency in my words like I was trying to get everything out of my system before a set time limit. By now, the last remaining barriers for all the boys have been broken and their tears freely flowed from their sleep deprived eyes. 

I hiccup before I continue, wetly laughing through my tears. “God, I can't believe that they’re in middle school already.”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll do that, beautiful. I promise we will.” Kenny croaks, the boys all stumbling in place from their trembling bodies and leaning against each other in support. Everyone collectively tries to control their breathing and crying so that they can still hear me over the phone, seeking solace from one another. 

I hum in appreciation at the confirmation, unable to see the mess that everyone is in. “How's Ike?”

“Fine.” Kyle forces through his tight throat, only able to let out one word before a sob forces itself out. He presses a hand over his lips, painfully exerting pressure to stop himself from wailing like Clyde. 

This, of course, was an absolute lie. The younger Broflovski has had a permanent look of emptiness after the initial tantrum he threw from hearing the news. The curly haired teen couldn’t bring himself to relay how the elementary schooler has been spending his days at the Marsh residence, locked away in my room and curled up in my bed waiting for me to come home.

“That's good to hear. He has his school play coming up, right?” It was truly maddening, my casual tone. Tweek couldn’t hold it back any longer, his eyes squeezed shut as his shaking hands begins to go back at seizing fistfuls of blonde hair to sharply tug at. 

“You remembered… It’s this weekend.” The red head whispers, his voice wavering because it feels like he’s completely breaking from the inside at the thought of his two younger siblings.

“Of course I did! That’s my little man.” I say fondly, beaming into the phone yet a little offended that the ushanka wearer might have thought that I forgot such an important date.

Nonetheless, I continue. “I know he’ll do good. I helped him practice his lines for weeks, you know? He’s been working so hard. Sometimes when it’s late at night, he’ll call me just to have me listen to him recite his parts over the phone. He’ll whisper it so that Aunt Sheila won’t catch him. I'm so proud of him. I wish I could come see him on the big stage—he really belongs under the spotlight.”

“Wh-of course you can come. I thought you were coming?” Kyle’s words are forceful through gritted teeth, confused anger seeping in as his eyebrows crease.

His words carry the underlying question of why wouldn’t you come? What makes you think that you couldn’t? The hearts of the group horribly clenches in pain because the words, again, allude to something dreadfully worrying.

I wetly laugh, apologetic. “Yeah… I’m sorry. Of course.”

At the empty words, Kenny finally breaks. He just wants to wake up from this nightmare, this ongoing daze of a dream. Because those words were merely meant to placate the teens, not to promise anything. Lips twisted into a grimace, the boys listen to me apologize yet again.

“Princess, don’t do this to me anymore. I can’t fucking take it. I miss you. Please, N/N. Talk to us.” Finally interrupting the small talk, the resolve of the other boys ends. It’s now filled with a verbal onslaught of pain in the meeting room as they can no longer withhold their soft hiccups and gasping sobs.

“Kenny. Craig.” I heavily breathe, willing them to hear my next words through my quick gasps. 

Oh, how they wish they could just pull me to their chests like they usually do and pepper an abundance of soft kisses onto my face in comfort when they hear my voice break.

“I love you.”

Parting words, rushed to desperately convey my words as if time was running out. But there was plenty of time, right?

… Right?

Craig growls, his head shooting out from its position over Kenny’s shoulder. He snatches the phone out of the blonde’s hands and presses it close to his downturned mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare say that to me right now. You say that to my face, you hear me?”

I laugh in affection, “I thought you might say that. You’re always so stubborn.”

Despite the harsh words the ravenette savagely spits at me, I continue to talk. “But I need you both to know. You two were the best things to ever happen to me.” 

Were, why would you say were but not are? 

My next words are like a whisper. Like it was too late. “Always and forever, right? My promise ring—I love it so much. I look at it all the time and smile, it never fails to do that to me. I just wish I could have seen a wedding ring replace it.” 

But before the two boys can protest at their lover’s words of regret, scuffling can be heard. The sound of a struggle on the line paralyzes the bodies of the teens, their eyes growing wide in fear as their breaths come out quickly of the unknown.

“Y-Y/N..?” Jimmy’s voice wobbles, the crutches supporting his body shaking due to its owner's harsh trembling. 

When they hear my voice again, it’s a little further away from the phone and it isn’t in response to any of the guys. “No, please! Just a little while longer.”

“Y/N?!” My brother yells, ripping the cellphone out of the confines of Craig’s already tight grip. 

For the first time since I picked up, the boys desperately look at the other officers in the room but they can only look back at them in sympathy. They were all powerless to the situation, forced to do nothing as they helplessly listen to me beg and struggle. 

“Guys, I'm sorry! Stan! I love you! Craig! Kenny! I love you!” I sound even further away this time, my voice muffled and more distorted. Like I was shouting from the distance in a fierce effort to be heard as the space between the phone and I quickly increases. 

“Kyle! I lo—” 

No more words, just the dial tone.

“Y/N!” Everyone yells at the same time but it’s already too late, futile in its message of reaching me. 

Nothing. It’s silent again.

When the phone falls from my brother’s loosening grip, the sound of it hitting the carpeted floor of the boardroom orchestrates an influx of noise. The officers around the boys spring back into life as Yates barks out orders while all the detectives begin to shoot out theories.

Something the boys have been praying for just leaves them feeling drained and hollow, their lifeless eyes staring at one another in complete hopelessness. They hear a passing detective that makes their way to exit the room with another, mumbling to his partner as they pass by the boys.

Their companion loudly shushes them with an elbow to the side as they shoot the motionless teens a wary look, but it’s too late. They heard what he said and it just voices out into existence the terrifying thing that is going through everyone’s minds right now—the thought that everyone didn’t have the courage to acknowledge to themselves 

That was a goodbye, wasn’t it..?

song: [everybody wants to rule the world - tears for fears]

a/n: i have to admit, adding this song to this chapter was rather indulgent on my end because i absolutely LOVE this song!! the lyrics are so profound to me and i just decided to incorporate these lyrics to this part because it really matched up with what was going on so i thought, why not? :)

[kurimiaki]

T, R, N and P with Diluc please?

the uncrowned king of mondstadt, diluc ragnvindr.

yandere alphabet via dear-yandere! revisions i made are flaky so. my bad wwwww

cw: dark content, physical abuse, kidnapping, confinement, claustrophobia, extremely unhealthy relationship.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Just because Diluc may be attending to business elsewhere, does not mean you are free from his heady grasp. Distant yet coddling; his attentiveness is a curse just as much as it can be a blessing. You’re never without security, that much is true. Dawn Winery is his eyes and ears, every single servant wrapped around his finger, wrapping around and constricting you. Self isolation could never be a possibility, not when Adelinde ushers you out of bed without a minute left to spare, always in such a hurry, as if wallowing in utter boredom for days on end is anything of importance. From the very beginning, Diluc had made it a point to ensure your physical health was a top priority to those surrounding you; strict itineraries have maids silently mourning over their packed workload. A plethora of duties— take you on brief walks outside the winery, never longer than 15 minutes, feed and serve meals delicately planned and catered to your health, eyes and ears constantly watching, watching, watching. They keep you like a dog on a leash, no matter how pampered. They do so dutifully. They must. Who could possibly decline such a hefty pay at the expense of silence?

It would be a blatant lie to say your physical health had declined any whilst under his... care, however, the same cannot be said for your mental well being. He can’t, despite how much he hates his inability to do so, prevent your tears. And by the archons, do you cry. Diluc is unable to approach you some days, those days when the illusion of normalcy and domestic living he works so hard to put up simply melts away, when you can do little more than curl in on yourself and wretch into your silk sheets with a litany of tears flush in your eyes. He wills himself to allow you the mercy of a few hours alone, albeit with check ups and that blatant discomfort of his when you wail at the slightest touch to your shoulder. Of course, it’s a different case entirely when such cries are symptom of punishment— whereas Diluc will weakly attempt to comfort you with softened eyes when you work yourself up, flaky and visibly uncomfortable, his resolution is unflinching and unwavering should you choose to act out of turn. Wail, sob, beg and beg for mercy, for forgiveness, his mask of nonchalance will stay firm.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

No. Diluc is understanding that the situation he has thrust you into may not be ideal, he anticipates a lack of reciprocation and overall resistance, but he feels absolutely no guilt. In his eyes, this is for the best, the world is much too cruel— who better than him to make that judgement for you? Even if you do prove yourself to be capable of taking care of yourself, (with Diluc himself to measure up to) this Darknight Hero will find every minute, minuscule little thing to prove you otherwise. Just about every one of your shortcomings Diluc will try and use to his advantage, to put himself in a better light. Who else is as capable as he is, who else can prove themselves worthy of your companionship, your devotion, in the ways that he has? The longer you stay in his grasp, not that the possibility of leaving will come otherwise, the more difficult it becomes to prove him wrong. He feeds you with the utmost care, keeps you healthy, entertains you should you need conversation or otherwise, and provides, provides, provides. There may be a lack of freedom on your end, but really, do you have much room to complain? Without him, you may very well be dead. He ensures that point is driven straight to your heart, however many times is necessary until you grow compliant.

His will and rationality is fully reasonable, in his mind, hence why his wishes to keep you by his side shall forever remain solid. Perhaps it is the idea of you keeping close to him that entraptures Diluc so entirely, for he is a distant admirer. He would be contented growing old and without your touch, merely sharing your company for as long as life allows. All the same, he wishes to swallow you whole, skin, blood, guts and tears, if only to keep you with him. It is selfish, but he tells himself that is something of which he is deserving. He must.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Diluc is nothing if not dedicated to his goals, a driven man in everything he sets his mind to. In order to maintain the position he thrives in, he is forever alert, forever adapting, prepared for any strenuous situation thrown his way. Should you push past a line you are never meant to cross, jab at him a tad too harshly, well... it’s not as if he gives no thought as to how to keep you in line. Rarely are you knowing enough of his inner workings to be able to push him past the point of no return, a point where even you, his dearest, are not spared from his wrath. Emphasis on rare, for he is wholly tolerant and gentle with you, to an extent. Any person has a breaking point, and Diluc, despite his detached disposition and stoic attitude, can only withstand so much. He bottles up so much to remain composed, after all. When he snaps, he is unable to hold himself back any longer.

He is not one to take pleasure from the suffering of others. Lest they truly deserve it, is what he’ll tell himself, to at the very least maintain the illusion of normalcy. Sway not from the path of righteousness, forget not the splendor of dawn. His mind is able to concoct the most horrific scenarios he could possibly put you through, for he does the same with his enemies. In a way, when you act out of turn, an instinctual part of him, cultivated after years spent at the whims of the dangerous and unknown, sees you as just that— an enemy. He doesn’t often choose the more unsavory methods to keeping you in line, ie: beating or threatening you with his vision, further keeping true to said threats should you continue. Diluc is wholly capable of restraining the urge to simply slap the snark off of your face (he had done so regardless, once or twice), and much prefers isolating you on his own terms, away from everyone and everything, even himself. It’s a small room, not even on par with that of your shared bedroom, much more similar to a closet or crawlspace.

A room, but a cage all the same. Splintered wood floors, dank cobblestone surrounds you and few cracks in the stone leaves room for bugs of all nature to crawl through, allows the elements to rain hell upon you should you end up locked up during the harsher months. A lone maid, not even Adelinde, the head, attends to you, sparing meek glances should you call out when she gently places a meal of one roll, a piece of meat, and a few shoddily cut slabs of potato. No begging and weeping and screaming you may do will soften Diluc into coming back for you- again, his resolve is akin to that of steel, his will forever unyielding. He decides when you are thoroughly broken in, and when it is time to hold you in kind, he shines through like that of The Darknight Hero the people proclaim him to be. In the end, what is necessary is that he shows you how much better off you are when with him. He’s much too possessive and to a point, coddling, to ever consider discarding you into the wild and at the whims of hilichurl camps and abyss mages alike.

His hold is firm and grounding. Had he always been able to hold you with such ease? Had he ever truly held you in kind, as he does now? He’s warm. A familiar, comforting scent of smoke and acidic wine fills your senses and him, oh, him. He had left you, left you alone, all alone, in that room, not even a room, all alone, and yet you can do little more than gag and writhe and latch onto him with pleas of his name whispered hoarsely— ‘Diluc, Diluc, Diluc’. A cry of your savior.

He can’t look at you, won’t look at you. Won’t give you the mercy, but he couldn’t be angry. Not anymore. He holds you tighter and so flush to himself, with a ferocity narly shown to anyone but you, not in kind, not with this passion. You smell of dust, a husk of yourself. Faintly of his sheets, faintly of iron, of vomit, of filth.

Fresh memories of your betrayal burn hot in his mind. He’s contradicting himself. He cannot relent. It comes out as a whisper, barely even heard to himself, and he curses his very soul the moment it passes his lips.

“Strive to do better. Lest you want your time there to increase tenfold.”

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

He can bear with defiance and unwillingness on your part, to an extent. He can anticipate as much, for he is not delusional enough to fool himself into thinking your relationship is even somewhat typical to that of a normal couple, no matter how much he wishes that to be the case. No, for the initial few weeks of your captivity (he’s always gotten so mad when you refer to him as such, a captor) Diluc allows you to lash and sob and attempt to reason with him, attempt to soften him, attempt to hurt him. He’ll allow you to do so, but he himself remains impenetrable, unblinking, almost uncaring. He is prepared for about anything and everything, always expecting the worse possibilities as to save himself from further harm. For you, as well, he is constantly anticipating and observing. In hidden, minute little ways. It may even come as a shame to him if the fact that he enforces the maids to note down your every little move ever reaches your ears.

All in all, Diluc’s complete preparation for anything and everything you may throw his way makes him extremely patient, for better or for worse. Difficult to crack, impenetrable, almost— on one hand, the distance he keeps from you to accommodate for your lack of reciprocation may come as a blessing, but it makes it all too difficult to try and pester him into letting you go, to try and understand his goals and motivations in keeping you locked right away. Your complacency is inevitable, sooner or later, Diluc will begin approaching and weaseling his way into your routine in the smallest of ways, gradually and unconsciously causing you to grow fonder of his presence. It’s a slow process, one he had planned from the very moment his wishes of a domestic life with you grew much too much to handle. He loves you completely, yearns for your love, and for it, he will wait as long as necessary.

Blazing red eyes leer down upon you, your shame increasing tenfold for each second that passes subjected to that gaze of his. A fit of expaseration, you will admit, had sent the cutlery dear Hillie had so delicately prepared flying off of the white tablecloth and onto the hardwood floors, further staining the expensive rugs with wines and crumbs and oils from his favorite meal, a concoction of pasta and steak and cheese. He had prepared yours alongside with it, striking tonight as a tad more special than the rest. You didn’t blame yourself for what you did, not when he had proposed something as outlandish as marriage.

He keeps silent, leaning back in his seat, his throne, as if he were a king observing a mere peasant begging for mercy— quite frankly, you should be. But perhaps tonight he will be more lenient, you ponder, averting your gaze to the flickering embers sparking from the fireplace beside you.

He sighs, suddenly, worn and thoroughly put out by your antics, further embarrassing you by his facade of nonchalance. No, you could tell from the way his leather gloves creaked from gripping himself too hard, he was barely concealing his own anger.

“You hardly let me finish my scentence. Come, we’ll continue this conversation upstairs.”

[whumpy-writings]

🍊 for Henri and Aaron, 💧 for Aldon and Micah

Thanks for the ask! This was super helpful! If anyone wants to send anything, prompts are here

CW: discussion of trauma, ptsd, noncon, nudity, torture, blood, bruises, scars, long term captivity, vampires, slavery, smoking, war, abusive parent, alcoholic parent, minor whump

🍊 Does your OC have any triggers? Why do these things trigger them? What are they like when triggered and how do they calm down after?

Henri: Most of Henri’s triggers relate to his time with his Old Master, whose favorite recreational activity was torturing Henri. A lot of the times Henri would be blindfolded and bound before being beaten, so those things will trigger him. His Old Master smoked an expensive brand of cigar, and that smell will also trigger him because he Master liked to smoke after he had finished beating him and Henri was laying bruised and bloody on the floor. Multiple vampires in the same room also tends to trigger him, because it reminds him of his Old Master’s parties, which were never pleasant. The sound of water dripping on stone reminds him of the days spent locked up alone in the cold cell. And finally fangs at his neck terrifies him because that was his Old Master’s favorite place to feed from, plus it’s where his scar from his failed escape attempt is. When triggered, Henri has flashbacks and these often end up leading to panic attacks. He cries a lot and sometimes forgets that he’s safe now. Aldon has taught him some breathing techniques that can help, but the most effective way for him to calm down is to be safe in Aldon’s arms. A nice cup of tea also helps.

Aaron: Aaron’s triggers tend to relate to his time in the breeding program. The words “breed” or “mate” send him into an instant spiral. He can’t be naked in front of other people because it reminds him too much of his body being used. Being called “human” or “017” is a trigger for him. The smell of blood also triggers him because of how pervasive it was while in the EFSP. Another big trigger is tight spaces. After his experience getting shipwrecked and then being trapped in the cellar for days until Micah rescued him, he has pretty bad claustrophobia. When triggered Aaron either dissociates or lashes out. To calm himself down, he tends to count. His all-time record for counting was when he got to 1,000 after a particularly rough day.

💧 What is something from your OC’s past they’re the most ashamed of and why? What is something they’re really proud of? And lastly what is something in their past that could make them shake with dread?

Aldon: Aldon is most ashamed of an incident when he was at the academy and a human was killed. He feels like he should have been able to stop it, but he didn’t . Aldon is proud of the work he’s done in the army. Even though he absolutely hates killing and also feels an immense amount of guilt about it, he does believe that he has been able to save a lot of people’s lives through his leadership. Though never as many as he would like. Aldon’s also really proud of the progress Henri’s made. When he first got Henri the poor human was thoroughly traumatized and absolutely terrified. But he’s made so much progress! He’s not afraid of Aldon anymore, he actually speaks his mind, he’s learning to read. Aldon is super proud of him. The thing that makes Aldon shake with dread is the Battle of Grange. It was one of his first battles when he was still only a lieutenant, and it was awful. He’s told Henri a little about it, but there is a ton that he will never tell another soul.

Micah: He’s most ashamed of handing Aaron over to the EFSP. He knew that Aaron would be hurt there but he felt like he didn’t have a choice. Micah is most proud of using his army salary to buy a house for his siblings. It’s on a quiet street in the city and is warm and dry, something he never had growing up. Micah did not have a happy childhood, so remembering it is dreadful for him. Micah’s father was a raging alcoholic, and would often come home from the bar irate. Micah would lay awake waiting for his father to come home, filled with fear because he knew that he or his siblings would be beaten. As the oldest, Micah would try to protect his siblings by letting his father beat him instead of them. He still can’t stand the smell of whiskey.

(Tagging because this got really long and has a lot of fun character tidbits! Let me know if you only want to be tagged in full chapters) Tag list: @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whump-cravings @thecyrulik @neverthelass @michelleswhumpyreblogs @whumpsy-daisy @the-monarch-whumperfly @aswallowimprisoned @secretwhumplair @whumpzone @whots-a-tag-precious @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @nicolepascaline @susiequaz12 @kittysselfships @puffball-lover554 @itsleighlove

[lovemesomesurveys]

Do you weigh less than 130 pounds? Yeah, quite a bit less.

Do you straighten your hair every day? No. I haven’t straightened my hair in years.

What kind of car do you drive? I don’t drive.

What’s your favorite kind of ice cream? Strawberry, mint chocolate chip, birthday cake, and cookies and cream are good. I haven’t had ice cream in quite awhile, though. 

Do you wear earrings daily? No. It’s been awhile since I’ve worn earrings as well. 

Do you prefer purple or green grapes? Green.

When’s the last time you got your eyebrows waxed? I only got them waxed once and I was like 14.

Have you ever been in a tanning bed? No. Talk about claustrophobia. And I have no desire to do so anyway. 

Did your last kiss mean anything to you? Yeah.

How’s your hair right now? It’s up in its usual messy bun.

Have you ever wanted to go to Australia? I would love to.

What’s your favorite fast food restaurant? I’m not as into fast food as I used to be, but the ones I go to when I do have it are Chick-fil-A, Carl’s Jr, McDonald’s, and Jack in the Box.

When’s the last time you washed your hands? A few hours ago.

Who were you with the last time you were drunk and where were you? I was with a group of friends in a hotel room I rented for my birthday back in 2013.

What is one thing within the last year that if it had gone differently you feel might have changed things now? If I had done some things I should have been doing and managing things better regarding some of my health related issues.

What is something that you associate with summer? The miserable heat.

Have you ever ran around outside completely naked? Uh, no. Absolutely not.

When you’re hungry, does your stomach hurt? Sometimes. My body is super dramatic like that. I’ll feel weak sometimes and it’s like omg stop acting like you haven’t ate in days.

Would you say that you have a nice smile? No.

Have you ever walked in on your parents doing something kinky? Ahhhh, no.

Do you use mouthwash? No.

Do you eat anything out of a box? Yeah.

When’s the last time the fire alarm in your house went off? It’s never gone off. The only time it has made noise is when the batteries need to be replaced.

Can you be trusted with secrets? Yes.

Pill to make you braver or one to make you smarter? Braver. I’d be able to get some things taken care of that I’ve put off because I’m anxious and scared.

Are you in a hurry to grow up? I am grown up at 31 I guess, but I’m in no hurry to get older. I was never in any hurry.

When was the last time you used a bar of soap? Yesterday when I showered.

Do you keep notes, drawings or letters that people give you? Yes. I’m big on that.

Have you ever been locked in a car with a bf/gf? No. How would we be locked in the car?

Have you had a bf/gf that you never kissed? No. 

How many true best friends are present in your life? No friends, but I have my family.

Do you currently have a significant other? Nope.

Do your parents approve of the people you hang out with? They never had an issue with any of my friends.

Would you be able to stand being in the same room as someone you hate? I don’t hate anyone, so.

Have you ever lost a close friend? Yes.

Think of your current or last bf/gf. Do you/did you love them? I did.

Has anybody criticized the way your significant other looked like? I’m single, but no one said anything about the way my exes looked.

Have you ever stayed up late talking to a bf/gf on the phone or online? Yes.

Do your friends like the people you date? Do their friends like you? They had an issue with Joseph because they saw what I didn’t want to see, which was that he was using and playing me and wasn’t treating me right. I haven’t had an issue with their friends.

Do your parents let you date, or do you sneak around? I’m 31 years old. I can’t blame my non-existent dating life on that haha.

Have you ever felt backstabbed by a close friend? Yes.

Do you have any handshakes with anybody? No.

Do you feel you can rely on anybody to always be there for you? I know my family will always be there.

Have you ever regretted ignoring anybody? I’ve pushed people away and messed up good things. :/

What has been the stupidest reason someone has broken up with you? Joseph just didn’t want to commit. He wanted me when it was convenient and when he felt like it.

Have you ever kissed someone in their bedroom, or in yours? No.

Has a friend of yours ever confessed their love to you? No.

Have you gone out with someone, then ruined the friendship you had before? My first boyfriend and I were good friends before we started dating and yeah it definitely changed things after.

Can you trust any of your friends at full capacity? No friends. I trust my family, though.

Is the word 'love' even in your vocabulary? Yes.

Who do you think is more confusing, males or females? People are confusing.

Have you written or drawn anything for somebody else? No.

Do you have any pictures of yourself with a bf/gf? I have photos of myself and my exes.

Do your friends know how to make you smile in tough times? My family does. My doggo always can.

Has anybody said they loved you, but you didn't love them back? Yes.

Is there anyone you don't like that always seems to be everywhere you are? No.

Is there anyone you care about more than you care for yourself? My family.

What/who do you take the most pictures of? My doggo.

How long did you spend in a vehicle today? I’m not going anywhere today. 

When you make a mess are you more likely to clean it up right away, or do you get to it later? I clean it up right away.

Who do you blame for your bad mood today? I’m just annoyed because yesterday I slept until 6PM and today I’ve hardly slept at all, I kept getting up like every hour. It’s 10AM now and I first fell asleep around 6, so yeah not much sleep going on. :/

By what age would you like to be married? I don’t plan on getting married.

What are you looking forward to right now? Nothing at this moment.

Do you have any split ends? Yes.

Is there a book you're currently reading? Yeah, I’m finishing up this book called, “Anything for You” by Marissa Finch.

Did you ever want to be a fashion designer? No.

When was the last time you went to the dentist? It’s been awhile. :/

The last time you cried, what was wrong? Oh ya know, life.

Do you sleep with a fan on? Yes, even now in the winter.

What's the last video game you played? Animal Crossing: New Horizons. 

What do you usually drink at meals? Coffee or water.

Are you going to a library tomorrow? No.

Do you sleep better during thunderstorms? No, but I do enjoy them.

Has anyone pissed you off based on their actions recently? Yes.

What language did you take up in high school? I took Spanish all 4 years.

You’re single, correct? Yep.

Is the last person you texted good looking? My mom is beautiful. 

At this very moment, what exactly are you doing? Besides the obvious I’m listening to an ASMR video.

How do you feel about girls smoking? I don’t care what gender is doing it, I personally don’t like it.

Have you ever been in a perfect relationship? No. Perfect relationships don’t exist.

Is the person you last texted in a relationship? Yeah, my mom is with my dad.

Do you think someone is thinking about you right now? Nope.

Do you like “good morning” texts? I don’t get those.

Last movie you watched? Wonder Woman 1984.

Name something you like about winter: I love Christmastime, the weather, the clothes, the colors, the smells, the coziness...all of it.

What’s your favorite color? Pastels, rose gold, sea foam green, coral, and yellow.

Would you rather be called hun or baby? I don’t really care for either one.

Is there someone that you miss being close with? Yes.

Have you ever fallen asleep in someone’s arms? When I was little.

Does anyone completely understand you? I don’t think completely. I certainly don’t completely understand myself.

In the last 12 months can you say you truly cared about someone? My family.

You were single last month, why? Uhh, because I’m not interested in or talking to anyone in that way. Like, there’s literally no one right now. No one is interested in me either.

Would you rather get 1, 12, or 24 roses? I’d appreciate any amount.

What is something you like to do when you’re down? Cry and one of my go-to activities I do normally as a distraction.

Do you believe teenagers can fall in love? Sure.

Have you ever received a text message that made you cry? Yes.

Did you enjoy your summer? Last summer was even worse because I wasn’t able to go to the beach, which is the only thing I like about summer.

When you watch movies at home, do you like the lights on or off? I tend to just keep ‘em on.

Do you think relationships are even worth it? Yes.

Is any part of you sad at all? All of me.

Do you like your first name? Sure.

What’s most stressing right now? Health and life stuff.

What are you listening to currently? An ASMR video.

Have you done anything embarrassing lately? Not recently.

Dark hair or light hair in the opposite sex? Whichever.

Do you judge people you don’t know? Not to the point that I don't want to get to know them, but yeah. <<< That’s a good way of putting it. Like, I think we all judge people to some extent and that’s normal and not always a bad thing, but some people are judgmental people and they make up their own assumptions and opinions without getting to know a person. They have their mind made up and it stops them from getting to know someone. 

Would you date a boy/girl if you knew they were capable of cheating on you? I guess anyone is capable of doing so, so it’s something that could possibly happen in any relationship. However, if I knew someone had in fact cheated before or was known for that, then no I would not. Even if they had cheated once it would be something I’d worry about happening to me.

Did you sleep alone last night? I always do.

If you could have one thing right now what would it be? I’m kinda hungry, but meh.

Would you rather have ten kids, or none? None, hands down. I don’t even want one kid, let alone TEN.

Do you tell your mom or dad everything? I tell my mom a lot.

Does it matter to you if your boyfriend or girlfriend smokes? It would absolutely matter to me if they smoked cigarettes.

Have you ever been hurt by someone you never thought would hurt you? Yes.

Do you have siblings? I have two brothers.

[ancsthctist-archived]

//. 失われた記憶 // memories lost // reijiro

     Sotenbori didn’t change much in the last two decades, did it? Even during the daytime, there was still an uneasiness about it, one you couldn’t quite touch until the sun drowned in the west and the brightly flashing neon nightlife was made more apparent. Reijiro remembers the first night he was here, on Hanzou’s arm, gawking in foreign wonder at the sights, the sounds, the smells. How quickly he forgot that urban jungles had its dangers--how swift Sotenbori was to remind him that this wasn’t the wonderland it was dressed up to be. Even the waters of the river were dark and murky--pretending to be a perfect spot for a boat ride with a loved one whilst hiding bodies floating just beneath the inky surface.

     But Reijiro wasn’t here for the fun of it. Nay, Sotenbori was the last place he wanted to go, and for the reasons he eventually decided to come. With a brief note detailing his trip left for Majima, he booked a hotel for three days prior to taking the long train ride back, wherein he had all but left his body behind in some lucid daydream, only to be woken by the intercom announcing their arrival at the station. Shit. Mind raced to stay on. To take it back to Kamurocho and give the excuse that it wasn’t as important as he thought it was. To pretend to fall asleep, fail to disembark and end up back in Tokyo as a result of human error. Heart jittered in his chest as he stood, grabbed his bag and stepped off the train.

     Part of him hoped that whatever awaited him here was harmless and unnoteworthy. His office had been abandoned and was left untouched by the locals. Reijiro had the deed and never thought of selling it off to anyone--no one ever asked, and Ayumi-chan made use of it at least as a form of storage. But now she no longer needed it, having decided to get rid of majority of the things she kept. Money from selling the property wasn’t needed, but there were was one thing he had left there. Abandoned. To rot and whither to dust. One thing that he had feared then and feared now to peruse. But the time has come. With things settling down in Kamurocho, he decided to make his way to this ill begotten place, leaving Ayumi-chan in charge of the clinic during his absence.

     The hotel room reminded him of his old apartment. Almost like a box. Gray walls, wooden door and floor. Few appliances and a claustrophobia that kept him awake at night. It was enough to make him wonder if perhaps he should see the sights again to kill time before it was dark enough to visit his old office. Dinner from Osaka King calmed him down somewhat. But then it was back to bored anxiety that seemed to slow time down to an agonizing crawl. The closer that time drew near to make for the old place, however, the harder his heart hammered against his chest.

     First night was focused on going through what supplies remained in the old cabinets and drawers, pulling out medical supplies that were still usable and even old books that he had completely forgotten about. Bringing them back to the hotel room and going through them, he tossed what was worthless and packaged the rest in his messenger bag. All in the clinic had been cleaned and thoroughly combed--except his desk. His desk, a nice piece of polished mahogany, only weathered by age and several instances of yakuza shoes kicking it for one reason or another in fits of rage, sat lonely in the front, with all drawers emptied except for one. It wasn’t until the second night that he sat at it in the old leather chair, with his phone in front of him open and with a text readied to send to Majima.

     I hate this place.

     He thumbs the send button. But never quite puts enough pressure for the message to go through. So rattled and anxious with his hand on the drawer, he could swear that he hears the synapses in his brain sparking and short-circuiting, wires crossing and malfunctioning when he needed them to calm. He opens the drawer. A leather bound notebook is inside. It’s not his. But another’s. He touches it with hesitant fingers, leaving his own body behind as he can’t feel himself pull it out and rest it upon the surface of his desk in front of him. He can smell Hanzou in the leather. Even in the years following his death up until Majima was dragged into this very office, very nearly on the brink of biting the dust, he never once even dared.

     But it’s open now. And he hates it. He hates every minute of it and his heart aches and throbs as he reads through the messily scrawled mixes of kanji and hiragana. Some bits are in English for some reason. To practice, perhaps. Reijiro did the same, but transposed. He feels tired as he reads through. Hoping and fearing in equal measure that he finds something earth-shattering. Something that puts the foundation of his perspective in an upheaval. Something that hurts him and makes him feel guilty for growing bitter and angry about their time spent together. Time wasted. But... there’s nothing. Nothing at all what Reijiro had imagined. Hanzou didn’t trick him into coming to Sotenbori. Hanzou didn’t plan to kill him and was stopped by another family member because Reijiro was a civilian.

     I don’t love him anymore. But I don’t know how to let him go.

     That it was that simple made Reijiro’s heart burn. He didn’t know whether to be angry or cry. Perhaps both. But he’s tired. He’s so tired. He fantasizes picking up the desk and shattering it against the wall, howling out his anger like a beast. But instead, his fury is unleashed in a sharp exhale of breath long held. He closes the book and rests his head in his hands, closing his burning eyes and letting his thoughts drift back to Tokyo. Back to Kamurocho. Back to Majima. Leagues apart from one another, these two Yakuza for whom he felt so much. Perusing the long past thoughts and feelings of one lead him to further understanding just how little he knew him. His stomach turned. He had fallen in love with an idea. And the idea persisted to frost the glass that encompassed reality. Microdreams take him back to the arms of a masked demon. And his body goes lax for a moment, reveling in the warmth. He could swear he smells that all too familiar brand of cigarette smoke and he breathes it in. Brief seconds of pleasantness are broken by the subtle clattering coming from a direction that Reijiro doesn’t recognize.

     Head raises and he looks around, grabbing his phone and erasing the message left, hurrying to use it as a flashlight when he hears it again. Going still, he listens. It’s coming from below. A basement? He didn’t recall a basement in his building. The entirety of this slot of land was abandoned, was it not? And why was the noise so loud? Getting up from his chair, he searched throughout the office, before feeling a draft coming from an empty bookcase. He notices scrape lines along the floor, and weathered paint and drywall sticking out from behind it. He moves it, careful not to make a sound as he uncovers a massive hole in the wall that leads to a makeshift stairwell that cuts through the wall of the neighboring building.

     He should leave. He should leave now, burn the deed, and never return. But he doesn’t. He eases himself down the staircase, down into a basement he had never known was there. It was cold down below, and dark. He holds an arm close to himself while the other holds up his phone, using it as a makeshift flashlight to illuminate the new space. There’s little beyond boxes and crates, all old and worn, with a chair, a tarp, and an excessive collection of bottles. There’s an unlit candle and a pack of cigarettes. He approaches this area that appears to be a living space, picking up a bottle and looking it over. It’s a cheap brand. Smelling awful of bitter ale. And he’s blinded for a moment, blinded and looking up at the ceiling involuntarily, startled by the sudden shatter of the bottle on the concrete ground beneath him. Mouth covered, he reaches up to grasp at a foreign hand coming in from behind, dropping his phone and sending it skidding across the floor.

     A sharp coldness pushes him and there’s hot blood gushing from him. He’s grabbing at the hand over his mouth, which turned to an arm around his neck under his throat, as well as the knife piercing the soft flesh of his side. His sweatshirt grows heavy, wet. The blade rips from him and finds its mark again. He can’t scream, but grabs furiously at the hand holding the knife. His teeth bite through clothing and draw blood from his assailant. It earns him another stab and he kicks at a leg behind him. A shriek and he’s released, falling to the floor with eyes blind and ears deaf, all ringing so loudly, so dark and wild and bright and spinning, everything’s spinning. He reaches for his phone, blood spilling from him and body shaking, but he’s grabbed, spun onto his back. The man on top of him is ragged. Eyes wide and wild. He’s frightened with the realization of what he just did. A hand goes around Reijiro’s throat, the other holding the knife up.

     He stops it from piercing his face with one hand, the other desperately clasping the one around his neck. His muscles ache and burn and his bones scream. He can’t feel the pain in his side, only the fierce gale of adrenaline that threatens to blow both of them over an unseen edge. Strength failing, his switchblade finds its way in his hand and he thrusts the steel into the man’s throat, right below the chin. Fear and desperation turn to shock, and the force of the man’s strength was soon to go lax as he coughed and sputtered, blood specking Reijiro’s face. He shoves the man off him, ripping the knife from his neck and pulling himself away. He wouldn’t help. He couldn’t help. His own blood stained his sweatshirt. His pants. A trail of red follows him as he drags himself towards his phone.

     Call Majima.

     He can’t. He shouldn’t. He probably should. But he won’t.

     Text him. He must text him.

     No. This was his journey to make. He must do it on his own. He can treat himself. He can stitch himself up.

     He’s hurt. He NEEDS help.

     He can help himself. This happens all the time in Sotenbori. This is the nature of Sotenbori, so it’s fine. He knew what he was getting into when he booked his trip and hotel. It’s fine. It’s all fine.

     When he reaches the top of the steps and his desk, he collapses on the floor. Tears threaten to bleed from him and he whimpers, blood stained hands gripping the wounds. He doesn’t want to be alone, but he didn’t want to involve anyone either. This was his issue. And he needed to see it through himself. He was tired of being saved. Tired of being rescued. But...

     A shouting sob escapes him, one hand going over his mouth while the other gripped his bleeding side. Anger wells in him and his eyes are pinched shut, images of Hanzou smiling at him even long after he had written that sentence flashing, and tears finally escape him and he’s crumbled on the floor, shrieking into his palm as his body shakes. The touch of Hanzou’s hand on his shoulder, the press of his forehead against Reijiro’s. The genuine look in his eyes, the deep rumble in his throat and the way the apples of his cheeks perked when he... 

     It’s the smile that kills him. His body all but doubles as he curls up on the floor, heart gutted and lungs starved of breath. How awful he made him feel, only to bring him back up with that smile, a nuzzle on the cheek and a hug to bring it home. A kiss to the top of his head. He feels like a child. Lost. And alone. And he wants Hanzou to come back. To be alive, so he can leave him. Leave and say goodbye, return to Kamurocho, to Majima, with healing in his heart. But he can’t. It’s gone. It’s all gone. And he’s left there bleeding on the floor, screaming out in his pain, pain that supersedes the punctures in his side. Screams drown to whimpers as energy leaves him, as the anger dies back into familiar sadness. His hand presses hard into his side, and he cries until he can’t anylonger. Until his lungs hurt and his face is sore.

     The twilight that pervaded around his clinic is quiet, offering silence to the outpour of grief. He pulls spare twine and sutures from his bag and stitches himself up, biting down on Hanzou’s journal for the lack of pain management. It’s hours before he makes it back to the hotel. He’s the spitting image of the dead, but as predicted, no one was called to check on him as he stumbled through the streets of Sotenbori back to his hotel room, where he makes the bare minimum effort to clean himself up. He takes off his sweatshirt and wraps it tightly around his side, painful and sore as it was. Light blue tanktop and jeans are stained dark in red, but the blood is old enough by the time he reaches the station that it looks like a poor design choice from a distance. Kamurocho is much the same when he arrives, having slept the entire trip back with Hanzou’s journal slipped between the medical books in his bag.

     He leaves the door to his home unlocked when he finally gets inside. He feels dead. Exhausted. Absent of everything and nothing, the only thing that seems real to him is the throbbing in his side. He was lucky the attacker hadn’t pierced his vital organs. He would have hated to have to stay in a hospital in Sotenbori of all places, much less let Majima know that he couldn’t leave his sight without getting the shit kicked out of him. But that was the nature of the world they were entrenched in. Violence for violence’s sake, where hurt had no meaning beyond what it was at face value. Hanzou didn’t treat him like shit for any reason beyond the fact that he was just an asshole. And he didn’t die for any reason beyond that he was in the wrong place on the wrong person’s dime. It was all meaningless. It meant nothing in the end.

     He would leave a trail of bloodied clothes on the floor of his house as he made his way to his bathroom, filling the tub with warm water and epsom salt with weak, shaking limbs. He leaned against his sink and looked into the vanity. He was far more pale than usual. Eyes red and unfocused, hair disheveled. He was a picture of death. Sotenbori had taken its pound of flesh. But it was over. It was over and he could finally ease himself into the tub, flinching at the brief sting of the salt, and close his eyes. He would text Majima later. And tell him he loves him. And that he hoped he’d never have to return to Sotenbori for as long as he lived.

[envy-fallen]

( Alex Hogh Anderson, Seven hundred and seventy-three, Male, He/Him, Fallen,) It’s been a while since we’ve seen MALAKIAH. I hear they’re a FALLEN and they reside on the EASTSIDE. They’re known to frequent HYPNOS (when they’re not busy OWNING THE UNDERPASS) and have made a place on THE EDGE OF THE BELWYN FOREST. Some may say they act IMPULSIVITY & CONCEITED while others claim they are ARDENT & PROLIFIC. With that being said, they’ve found the State of Calamity.

                             TW: Anxiety, claustrophobia, murder, gore.  

Name: Malakiah Age: Seven-hundred and Seventy-three Birthday: November, Eighteenth Birth place: Unknown Sexuality: Homosexual

Place of Work: Owner of The Underpass Place of Residence: Edge of the Belwyn Forest, Eastside

Tattoos: Chest piece of roses and thrones, American Style Swallows on his hands, and ‘Hellish’ tattooed in script across his right ass cheek. Scars: Large, thick, scar that comes around his right cheek bone, down across the right side of his lip. He also has a lot of scarring on his left leg, around the hip area.

Hair Colour: Black Hair Style: Short on the sides, longer down the middle. Normally pushed back. Curly when not styled. Eye Colour: Blue

Hobbies: Hiking, Generally working out, Drinking, Smoking, Messing with People, Going Out, Guitar, Piano. Introvert or Extrovert

Good Traits: Charming, Ardent, Prolific, Good Humoured, Blunt, Out-Spoken, Independent, Flirtatious, Laid Back,  Dedicated, Creative. Bad Traits: Impulsive, Conceited, Vicious, Anxious, Emotional, Forgetful, Jealous, Possessive, Controlling, Selfish, Temperamental.  

History:

  For Malakiah, being young, a child, isn’t something he can remember. He simply remembers being. That in his first moments he was given a task as an angel and that was that. A duty to fulfil perfectly. That was all he was going to do for the rest of eternity. He was placed with a fairly simple job. He was to sit and write down the names of every human that died in a single day. It was incredibly boring. All Malakiah knew for about a hundred years was a single room and the sound of voices repeating names in his head. Names that needed to be written down. That was it. His life, day in and day out. Even if he wanted to leave or see something else, wanting such a thing was considered a sin. At the time no one really knew what would happen if an Angel sinned. At the time, Malakiah feared that if he rebled, he would simply stop being. Although, as the years ticked on, and nothing changed, Malakiah began to wonder if no longer being would be better than spending even a second more writing names. 

And then the first of the Angels began to fall. 

Watching them fall was one of the first things outside of his room that Malakiah ever saw. He hated them deeply for having the freedom he had begun to crave. What would they do with their lives? Would they explore the whole of the earth? What would they feel? Taste? Touch? See? Malakiah grew jealous of all those who had cut ties with the other Angels and gained freedom from it. His envy grew and that was his first sin. Craving freedom turned into a hatred for those who had it while he did not. Malakiah can still remember the moment that thought ran through his head. The moment he didn’t push it aside but embarrassed the envy. Feeling Envy freely lead to his fall. 

One moment he was doing his work, the next he was in pain. Twisting and ripping through the air. His wings twisting in ways they shouldn’t have ever moved. He could not do anything to stop himself and yet there was no fear. In fact, Malakiah couldn’t help but laugh. Was this it? His wish for freedom was going to kill him? He had wanted so badly to do anything else but his duty and now he had just that? And the best part? He had chosen this. The rush of it all caused a smile to cross his lips, and a laugh to leave his lips. He tried his best to take in the surrounds that washed around him as he fell. See everything he could see. Feel the wind around him and smell the earth. Sometimes, even to this day, he has dreams of that moment. 

When Malakiah hit the ground, the pain came. His left leg shattered, and hip dislodged from its normal resting place. Strange enough, Malakiah did not scream or cry. This new feeling called pain was something altogether new. He could not help but enjoy the rush of his blood. The way his heart pounded in his chest and his head spun. The enjoyment did wear off and the tears came shortly after he realized he could not really move. What was left of his wings were useless and his leg was wrecked. Thankfully a human family stumbled across Malakiah and took him in thinking he was an angel. He did not fight them or correct them as they helped set his leg as best they could and patch him up. 

Being bed ridden might have driven others crazy but in that time Malakiah experienced so much. He continued to feel that pain, that discomfort that was still fresh. He felt the heat of fire for the first time and the cold of night. He ate food and talked to the family that had saved them. He asked so many questions about the earth and how they lived. The helped Malakiah get back on his feet and gave him the space and time to get a hold of his new found powers that came with being on earth. He tested himself in many ways as he healed. Although, he did not fully heal. Malakiah still has pain in his left leg and walks with a limp. If nothing else it reminds him of his fall. Of his life before freedom. Before envy. 

While staying with the family, Malakiah witnessed violence for the first. He was out in the yard with the eldest male of the family when their neighbor got into an argument with him. The argument broke out into a fight that ended the eldest man's life. Without much thought, Malakiah killed the neighbor by stabbing him over a hundred times before taking off. He never returned to the family but is still rather grateful for their care. 

From then on, Malakiah went on a journey to experience everything that he could possibly experience. He has lived a great many lives and done some truly disturbing things as his mind generally wonders towards the darker pleasures. For the most part, Kia is outgoing and relaxed about things. He is, however, extremely claustrophobic. He cannot stand feeling as though he is trapped. The first time Malakiah felt that way resulted in what the humans called a panic attack. They still strike him when the thought of being trapped enters his mind. Control is very important to Malakiah. The only time he likes to be out of control is when it comes to sex. Even then he will only allow someone he truly trusts to restrict his movements or tie him down. Kia does not like to talk about the fact that he has problems when it comes to small spaces, closed in areas and being tied down. Kia hasn’t come to terms with it in himself so going over that with someone else isn’t exactly on his to-do list. 

He has lost a great deal of people he has let himself care for over the years and has become rather wary of caring for anyone who isn’t immortal. Watching people age and die that he likes kills a little part of him. Kia, after all, does not get along with a great deal of people. He has gone to great extremes to save those who have gotten close to him. Sometimes Kia does regret saving them and other times he cannot help but know he’s right. One of the things that creates a great deal of envy in him is a couple that lives without fear and is just happy being together without any worry. Malakiah has never really felt that. He doesn’t think he ever will. While some things do really get to Malakiah, he is generally very happy with doing his own thing. He owns the Underpass and is out every night drinking far too much. He smokes like a chimney and loves to get in a bit of trouble. Whether that means sleeping with a married man or setting fire to someone's home really depends on the night. Nothing is off the table with Kia. 

Three Songs:

Overwhelmed By Royal and The Serpent  Young and a Menace by Fall Out Boy Rootless Tree by Danaine Rice

[itsaidanblack]

◦ × ♛ — intro.

⌠ JACK MULHERN, 23, MALE, HE/HIM ⌡ welcome back to gallagher academy, AIDAN BLACK! according to their records, they’re a THIRD year, specializing in KNIFE FIGHTING SKILLS, SWORD TRAINING, PRECISION SHOOTING, FIREARMS & SWAT TRAINING; and they DID go to a spy prep high school. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of (a sarcastic smile, the glint of silver rings, a cloud of cigarette smoke, graffiti on concrete, a flash of crimson). when it’s the (scorpio)’s birthday on 10/28/1998, they always request MOZZARELLA STICKS from the school’s chefs. looks like they’re well on their way to graduation. ⌿ lily, 19, she/her, gmt ⍀   

@gallagherintro​

♛ CONNECTIONS PAGE ♛ PINTEREST ♛ ABOUT ♛ STATS ♛ BIOGRAPHY ♛ INTRO ♛

      hello hello! i’m back with another child, everyone welcome my british bastard boy aidan. he’s a legacy kid who grew up filthy rich but hates his family and his upbringing, and is just lil bit of a criminal, really! 

[ c h a r a c t e r ; ]

&. basics

full name: Aidan Dean Black

nicknames: Dan, Danny

age: 22

orientation: bisexual

relationship status: single

date of birth: october 28th, 1998

hometown: windsor, england

gender: cismale

language(s) spoken: English, French, German

accent: standard british

&. personality

mbti: ISTP

temperament: phlegmatic/choleric

star sign: scorpio

element: water

enneagram type: type 4, the individualist

five positive traits: perceptive, intuitive, determined, independent, resourceful

five negative traits: destructive, pessimistic, blunt, aggressive, temperamental

likes: adrenaline rushes, spray-painting graffiti, hot drinks, going out in the middle of the night, the smell of gasoline, the night sky, knives, london, skateboarding.

dislikes: formal events, his parents, the color yellow, mushrooms, prejudiced people, heavy perfume

bad habits: smoking, doing drugs, drinking

hobbies: graffiti, skateboarding, drinking, getting high, sketching

fears: never amounting to anything, enclosed spaces, heights, needles

[ s t o r y ; ]

background:

aidan grew up in a filthy rich family of spies/assassins as the youngest of six children

his siblings are all very skilled in their respective areas of espionage, and their parents were ruthless and cold towards them to ensure they focused on their training

aidan’s great grandfather was the chief of intelligence at mi5 in the 1950s, so his family has a name and an image already set for them - prim, proper, and excelling in their own unique field of espionage

aidan grew up feeling inadequate - he wasn’t as good as any of his siblings, and his parents were merciless when it came to reminding him of the fact

his siblings weren’t much help either, trained to be the best, they only made his inadequacy more obvious the older they all got

his childhood was filled with training, fancy dinners, being forced to smile and meet friends of the family even if he was bruised and battered from training earlier

aidan began to become insolent, not showing up for training or deliberately failing his homeschooling to piss off his family

his parents were outraged and decided enough was enough, sending him away to a boarding school in america when he was 12

aidan, sick of feeling like he’d never amount to anything, decided to lean into his role as the black sheep of the family

he started to use what he’d been taught against the school, sneaking out at night, graffitiing the walls, stealing things from stores all around london

he actually loved his boarding school when he first began -- enjoying being away from his family, not compared to his siblings, and studying normal subjects instead of things like ‘which artery to sever for the swiftest death’

he amassed a small group of friends, impressing them with his training and ability to break into anything, win fights against the older students, and lockpick

he was able to avoid punishment for a while, and expulsion wasn’t an option when his parents were huge benefactors of the school

so the school adapted, became more vicious in their punishments

started refusing him meals, locking him in cupboards to keep him from sneaking out

and when he started picking the locks of the cupboards, they installed heavy duty padlocks against the doors

this is where he developed his claustrophobia, from being stuck in the closet sometimes even overnight in the pitch black

these punishments eventually wore him down enough that he stopped misbehaving so intensely at the school

and when his parents gave him the ultimatum -- attend a prep school for spies, or stay at the school, he agreed to finally behave and follow his parent’s path for him

despite his misbehaviour, aidan is still very good at what he does - call it genetics, but every member of their family excels at being spies or assassins

when he graduated his prep school with top marks, despite his past bad behaviour, his parents sent him to blackthorne to continue his studies, hoping that by the time he completes college he’ll be good enough to show off, like the rest of his siblings

during his time at prep school, he began to realize that he is bisexual, and fell in love with another legacy boy

their parents, though, were both intensely disapproving of both their sexualities and the relationship itself, and broke them up right before blackthorne

aidan now has a complex about love, and more specifically, the fact that he is incapable and unworthy of actual love

his first year at blackthorne went fine, and aidan actually enjoyed began to enjoy his studies, but he never stopped misbehaving, bitter from his childhood and his parents’ tampering of his relationship

( and also possibly just for the simple joy of constantly having reports sent home about his bad behaviour )

now:

don’t get me wrong - aidan is very good at what he does. 

he’s quite the talented marksman and sharpshooter, and given a knife in a fight, he’ll most likely win 

even without his legacy name he would have gotten a place at gallagher

he’s a bit of a bastard, at times, and a sullen one, too -- but he doesn’t mean anyone harm

he simply likes to always be honest and says things that are probably best left unsaid

he still sneaks out at night, often, to just be alone and roam around unsupervised, a remnant of both his childhood under constant surveillance, and his time at boarding school where nights were often spent locked in a cupboard

nasty smoking habit developed while at blackthorne, as well as his habit of getting drunk and/or high whenever possible in order to let loose

( he has a very unhealthy relationship with his emotions )

he loves to graffiti, and does so often, as an outlet for his creative drive and desire to vandalize things

but, all in all, he does really like it at gallagher, and doesn’t necessarily want to get kicked out, so he makes sure he’s subtle and not too destructive

he sometimes writes with his five older siblings, although most of them are as bad as his parents - he’s the closest to oscar, his second oldest brother, and kitty, his older sister 

he wears a lot of blacks and grays, and basically dresses like an e-boy, but he may or may not stab you if you bring that up

he likes to sketch, but if you tell anyone that he’ll kill you, having had it drilled into him at a young age that art is useless and for people without real talent

he carries a gray butterfly knife around with him everywhere, as it was a gift from his eldest sister for his success at prep school

[ W A N T E D   C O N N E C T I O N S ; ]

not-so-friendly ― while aidan is a very charming asshole, he is still sometimes the worst, and i can see a few people he pissed off or insulted or something

partners in crime ― aidan’s a little vagabond, and loves to graffiti stuff and sneak into places he’s not meant to be, and i want some people to get into deep shit with him

family friends ― the black family is quite high-profile, what with his parents running an empire and all of his older siblings being talented spies/assassins themselves, so i can imagine there’s a lot of people at gallagher that he recognizes

blackthorne friends ― aidan went to blackthorne for a year before gallagher, so i want some people who did the transfer with him.

friends ― he may act like an asshole, but he’s a nice asshole

family ― there’s probably a few people related to him roaming around, so if you want a cousin or something let me know!   

please hit me up to plot ! 

[silverncrimson]

( oscar isaac, 39, cismale, he / him ) Was that EZEKIEL ‘ZEKE’ MARCOLAS ? I heard a rumor they work for the O’SHEA family, but who knows for sure ? They can be a bit CALLOUS & UNETHICAL, but I also heard they can be METICULOUS & PERCEPTIVE. You’ll usually find them at SKYFALL in their spare time, when they’re not being the OWNER OF MALNATI PIZZERIA. You may want to keep an eye on that one !

- B A S I C -

Full Name: Ezekiel Miguel Marcolas Nickname(s): Zeke Age: Thirty-Nine Occupation: Owner of Malnati Pizzeria Affiliation: O’Shea Birthday: February 12th Zodiac: Aquarius

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Alignment: Chaotic Evil

- F A M I L Y -

Father: Miguel Marcolas (deceased) Mother: Ruth Marcolas (deceased) Siblings: Constantine (35), Uriel (30), Isaiah (28), Yesenia (24)

Ex-Wife: Lucia Daughters: Stella & Stefania (15) Son: Raul (8)

- A P P E A R A N C E -

Height: 5′9″ Hair Color / Type:  Dark brown  Eye Color: Brown Piercings / Tattoos:  No piercings. Five tattoos - the Chi Ro symbol on his left shoulder, being one of them

- H I S   Q U I R K S -

He wears black leather gloves at ALL TIMES

He carries around with him pocket rags / handkerchiefs and disinfectant spray, for wiping down surfaces if he needs to

He burns EVERYTHING he gets dirty, usually from blood splatter - whether it’s his fancy jackets or his gloves (he’s got about a hundred backup pairs - several of them he keeps in his glove compartment). 

He’s super meticulous about his clothes - they must be clean and tidy at all times

He often repeats himself, or counts out loud to himself

Does things in repetitions, especially if he is stressed about something

He will avoid cracks in the sidewalk

He will NOT shake your hand, or touch you at all...unless you’re his target

He drinks a shit lot of bourbon

Smokes a shit ton of cigars and cigarettes, alike

Very antisocial and a loner, but will talk to people if they initiate a conversation

- P E R S O N A L I T Y -

(+) Fiercely Loyal, Calm, Meticulous, Observant, Perceptive (-) Callous, Unethical, Intense, Inflexible, Perfectionist

- H I S   D E M O N S -

He suffers from: OCD, Mysophobia, Claustrophobia

Excessive thoughts (obsessions) that lead to repetitive behaviors (compulsions).Obsessive-compulsive disorder is characterized by unreasonable thoughts and fears (obsessions) that lead to compulsive behaviors. 

OCD often centers on themes such as a fear of germs or the need to arrange objects in a specific manner.

compulsive behavior

agitation

hypervigilance

impulsivity

meaningless and persistent repetition of own words or actions

repetitive movements

ritualistic behavior

social isolation

Mysophobia, also known as verminophobia, germophobia, germaphobia, bacillophobia and bacteriophobia, is a pathological fear of contamination and germs.

- B I O G R A P H Y -

Life long resident of Chicago, IL

The oldest of five kids. He’s got three younger brothers and a younger sister - they’re not all that close.

He suffers from OCD and Mysophobia, and a mild case of Claustrophobia - all of which developed when he was a very young child. 

He had spent the summer with his aunt in Springfield, while his parents went to Mexico to visit his paternal grandparents. His Aunt Marina, unfortunately, turned out to be a massive hoarder. Her house was an absolute nightmare - disgustingly filled to the max with literal garbage, and other useless, dirty junk that she’d collected over a good ten or so years. There was no livable space anywhere, not even a proper bed, except for a very small nook in the corner of the house. He remembers vividly, to this day, the infestation of roaches, mice, rats and dead carcasses of rodents and cats, and not to mention all the fecal matter of said animals, that he’d come across that summer. The smell alone...

Even to his then four year old brain, it had been more than enough to traumatize him for life, despite not remembering much else about it.

Nowadays, he wears a pair of black leather gloves wherever he goes.

He's the owner of Malnati Pizzeria - has owned the place for ten years, his dad owning it before him. When his papi passed away, the business was then passed to Zeke.

Is divorced. He's got a vindictive ex-wife, two teen daughters (twins) and an 8 year old son - all three of whom he hardly sees these days because his ex-wife's such a bitch and has gotten the court to deny him visitation rights. So he's bitter, and angry, and HATES that woman with a passion.

His childhood was not terrible, but it wasn’t all that great, either. Especially for a kid who did suffer from OCD and who was a germaphobe.

For a good portion of his life, his family always struggled with income, and growing up in poverty in a large city like Chicago was not exactly a blast. They lived on the north side of the city, in a small, cramped, rundown apartment - it had two bedrooms, one bathroom, and it was always infested with cockroaches and mice, and spiders. His literal nightmare.

The walls were super thin, the floor tiles loose or broken, and the AC and heater rarely worked, so it was often way too cold or too hot, but never comfortable. With a family of seven living within it’s walls, it was...claustrophobic to say the least.

Things started to change gradually when he was around 12. His papi got fired from his job as a taxi driver due to him being a liability after being in one too many road-side accidents, which desperately drove him to search for work elsewhere. Somehow, and Zeke never did get the full answer from him, Miguel Marcolas wound up working for the O’Sheas. He was eventually given Malnati Pizzeria as a ‘gift’, a place of business that he could call his own, so long as he stayed loyal and did his part to keep O’Shea business running smoothly.

Zeke had always been a highly intelligent individual, scarily so, so he was quick to pick up on the changes in both his father and their financial situation. They went from barely having anything to eat or any clothes to wear, presents to give out for Christmas or birthdays, to having all that and more...more than any of them had ever had before. Of course, he wasn’t one to knock a good thing like a newfound well of money. Questioning where the pizzeria came from and how his papi was able to afford ownership wasn’t something Zeke cared to do, or know the answer to. It didn’t matter.

Though he knew deep down that whatever it was his papi was dabbling in, definitely wasn’t honorable or lawful...but again, the kid didn’t care. It eventually got him and his family out of that shit apartment, and that was a godsend in his eyes.

The older he got, the more he started helping out at the pizzeria, and by the time he was 14, Zeke had met a fair share of the members of the O’Shea gang. Because he wasn’t just another stupid and naive kid, by that time he’d already figured out exactly who his papi worked for; instead of being scared like most kids might have been, what with being surrounded on a daily basis with some of the worst criminals that the city had to offer, Zeke had felt safe in their presence. He felt in awe of those men and women and the power they held.

The uppers that passed through Malnati had their eyes on him from day one, it seemed. They clearly saw the keenness in his eyes, and the idolization, but also a great potential, because they kept him around. His father, not an affectionate or loving man by any means of the word, watched on proudly as his associates took an interest in his eldest son, quickly shaping and morphing his impressionable young mind.

At the age of seventeen, Zeke proudly received his Chi Rho, joining the O’Sheas as a sentinel. Like many, he’d have to prove to them all that he was worthy of the tattoo, and boy was he ready...and he sure as hell proved that, to.

Zeke was as loyal as one could be to the O’Sheas, and despite his OCD and Mysophobia that he had to contend with, he had his ways of working around that, and he quickly became a deadly killing machine under the close training of his General handler at the time. He rose rapidly through the ranks, until he reached his desired position among the gang - Bonebreaker.

He’s been a Bonebreaker for going on fifteen years now, and he was still thriving. He was a stone-faced killer, a psychopath with no emotions, no qualms about taking out whatever hit he was assigned. There was no remorse for what he did, and he doubted that there would ever be...he wasn’t capable of that kind of emotion.

- W A N T E D   C O N N E C T I O N S -

Ex-Wife - He didn’t get worked up over a lot of things; it actually took quite a bit for him to even show that much emotion, but his ex-wife was certainly capable of pushing all of his buttons. He absolutely hated her, and the only reason she wasn’t dead, was because of his children’s sake. Despite not outwardly showing his love for his daughters and son, he did love them...as much as he was able to. They were about the only thing he truly felt any sort of positive emotions towards.

O’Sheas / Affiliates

Bonebreaker Interactions

Reaper Interactions

Malnati Pizzeria customers

Malnati Pizzeria employees

Anything!

[draftsfromthebin-blog]

All we can do is say goodbye

Hey you.

How have you been? I haven’t written to you for a long time. I wonder how things are with you.

Has that nagging ache in your wrist eased up?

Has your hair grown out?

Do you still smoke as much as you did?

Do you still hate the smell of fresh scotch with ice?

So much has changed.

I haven’t turned back to you in a long time and I doubted if I ever will. In our little play, the director, whoever he is, threw in a crossroad- a little conspiracy you were privy to.

I saw you walk away, steady and resolute. You didn’t turn back, I think. I was too proud to turn around, teary-eyed, anyway.

Winds blew and the month pages in my calendar flew by with it. Sand settled on that open wound, covering it up, whether I liked it or not. The occasional raw burn made its way through my veins but it had become second nature, the sand keeping the blood in.

It was time to leave. My bags were packed. A room that once wore my life and the people I love on its wall were now bare. It was as if I had never even come to stay. It was as if my life, my moments of joy and sorrow had never unfolded within the peripheries of this space.

I looked around.

I remember struggling to fit in with you in that single bed. I would always wake up with a few frozen toes and find the quilt under your belly. It wouldn’t matter because you would clumsily put your arm around me and snuggle in any way.

I remember those countless hours spent watching the most random things on Netflix. You would watch The Fresh Prince of Bel Air on loop and accuse me of not understanding black comedy. I would blissfully disagree and that banter would end in a compromise that usually swung a little in my favour. We would order pizzas and munch on them, a joint by the side to blur the world into oblivion.

Nothing mattered in this strange land as much as having you by my side did.

It wasn’t because we were in love. I don’t think we ever were. Unfortunate circumstances and some sort of comfort brought us together as friends and well-wishers after two years of knowing each other. Paths crossed awkwardly long before we decided to formalise it with a label but never one that had anything called love woven into it.

We spent a year in University together, as family, going through the ups and downs of each other’s love lives. I was afraid to give it a name or set down my peripheries. Life and love had taught me otherwise. When I said goodbye to you on that bus two summers ago, I didn’t realise that the book had closed right there. Everything after that just felt like a sad attempt to draw out a brittle plot.

I would often think of this when you slept peacefully by my side. In the process of nursing our wounds together, I stitched you into my heart as my own. I had only known us to be friends, friends who after a point felt something somewhere for each other.

Not love perhaps, but just something.

We both had struggles with our respective relationships, blocks that somehow untangled later in each other’s company, or so I thought. Maybe talking from the centre of a Gordian knot doesn’t give you the right perspective.

Near my Uni hostel, there is this road that leads to the local supermarket. On the way, by the sidewalk, there is this row of trees. They lay bare during the winter months as if almost foreshadowing our destiny. We would often walk by, sometimes lifelessly holding hands, sometimes freezing inside our sweaters. One of those trees was a creeper, struggling to find a branch strong enough to hold on to. As I stood at the end of our road, I felt a lot like that creeper. I was trying to hold onto something that had died aeons ago.

I did not know how to let go, I didn’t know how to give up. How could I?

When I saw you walk away, without as much as a twitch to turn back and set things right, our book had been clasped shut, sealed with wax. I still sat there, the fool that I was, trying to desperately open it and keep the story going. You see, I had a lot to lose here — a member of my pack, a fireplace in a cold country, my best friend.

I stood there, by my kitchen window as your silhouette made its way out of my sight. This same silhouette that I once saw against the setting Goa sun. Back then, we rode around discovering the quaint highways of Panjim with no care for the world. You promised me companionship till the end of our days. Companionship at each other’s weddings, companionship if those weddings didn’t work out.

I remember once, we were swimming in the waters of Anjuna. The world was a few feet away from us but we had those waves all to ourselves. We weren’t lovers then either, but we had an odd warmth keeping us together in those cold 7 pm November waters. We turned away from the horizon and looked at our friends and colleagues, all tiny specks on the shore now. You said to me, “If nothing works out for us, we’ll live together and open up a dog hotel. You can take care of the dogs, I’ll exercise them and handle the business.” You were lazy even here but this brought a smile to my face. I had worn an unexplained kaftan of melancholy that day as if knowing that our days in the sun were numbered. That little dream undid the garment’s string a little. The claustrophobia felt a little less lethal.

Back in the erstwhile present, lying down with your hand tightly around my waist, that claustrophobia often came back.

I had given myself a December deadline to work out what this was or just go back to our companionship. I couldn’t lose you for the rest of my life over the bitterness of a failed romantic compatibility. However, you seemed to be sure we could work things out while simultaneously telling me how you didn’t have it in you to invest in relationships and trust anymore.

It broke my heart, tore through it like mobs tear controversial pieces of art. The blood drenched what was left of the canvas but I couldn’t let it show.

You bought a vest in Goa, black with skulls that subsequently came to me. I carried it around with a lot of love, wearing it on the nights we spoke and the days I missed you. My dog oddly loved the smell of that vest, even though it was the same washing powder every other garment was washed with. An idiot I was with at the time decided to take it away from me when he knew I was treasuring you in its threads.

Suddenly, the only thing I had from you, I lost.

When we reconnected here, you gave me a jacket you loved to wear. It wasn’t warm enough when the snow came belting down on the city, but warm enough to feel you here when our going got tough. During the times I used to see you for a rare weekend, this jacket brought me closer to you. I did everything I could to make sure your scent didn’t fade. Time though showed no mercy.

A few weeks ago, I packed up your jacket with a letter. It took me close to a fortnight to muster the courage to take it to the post office. When the lady at the post office sealed the box and stamped it, it felt like a limb being taken away. A weird vacuum filled me up as I walked back home, the thought of returning and getting it back crossed my head more than once.

When we kissed on New Year’s day, it felt like maybe there was a chance. How sure your grip felt and everything you said sounded gave me hope.

I would eventually realise that I was expecting a bonfire from a candle wick. When I did, the fire went off altogether, not even a splinter remained.

Packed and ready to leave, I asked my roommate for one last minute with my room.

One last minute with what I had left of you.

I realised that I had lost everything I had that reminded me of you. I had thrown away our alcohol bottles. I had no cards, notes or gifts from you, perhaps a sign, that here was a man who wasn’t meant to fit into my puzzle piece. All that was left were these four walls.

I did not know why it was so hard to lock the room and walk away. I came back multiple times just to sit there for a few minutes and try and recreate all those moments, good and bad, we shared here.

I don’t know if this was the right or wrong thing to do. It was all I could do. Say goodbye.

[greenappleeyes]

If you feel comfortable doing it, would you mind anwering all the unanswered NSFW asks? Also your writing is amazing and your fics make my day! ❤️

Sorry this took so long. Lol. But I hammered it out early this morning when I couldn’t sleep. Also, I’m so glad you like my writing! 💕This was long, so all the answers are below the cut.

1:When did you lose your virginity?—Already answered

2: Rough sex or soft sex?—Typically, I need a little prep so it isn’t painful; but I really like it rough.

3: Do you have any unusual kinks/fetishes?— I doubt anything is considered weird.

4: Weirdest place you’ve had sex?— Not that weird, but in a car in someone’s driveway. (It was dark and we thought it was a dirt road… nope)

5: Favourite sex position?— Already answered

6: Do you like to be dominant or submissive?— I’m a total sub. Which is weird because in every other aspect of my life, I hate being told what to do.

7: Have you ever had any one night stands?— I have not.

8: Sex on the bed, couch or the floor?— I know it’s boring, but bedsex is so much more comfortable.

9: Have you ever had sex in a public place?— Does the dark driveway count?

10: Have you ever been caught masturbating?—Thank Chuck I haven’t.

11: What does your favourite sexy underwear look like?— I have a satiny, lacy purple thong that goes with a lingerie set that I have.

12: How often do you have sex?— Not enough. Probably 1-2 times a week.

13: Is there anybody right now you’d like to have sex with?— Why yes there is and I’m going to assume that every follower I have knows who he is because I don’t shut up about him or the fictional character he portrays on tv.

14: Do you prefer giving or receiving oral sex?— I almost never receive. My husband doesn’t like doing it and he’s kind of terrible at it anyways. So neither, I guess? But I give on a regular basis.

15: Most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you during sex?— I cried once. I was mortified.

16: A song you’d listen to during hard/rough/kinky sex?— I don’t really know, but we listen to mostly hard rock music.

17: A song you’d listen to during soft/slow/passionate sex?— Probably the same as above. Lol.

18: Are you into dressing up for sex?— I totally am! But my husband doesn’t seem to notice, so I don’t.

19: Would you prefer sex in the bath or sex in the shower?— I am way to short for shower sex to work properly. I’m also not thin, so lifting me would be a challenge. Bath sex? If I had a big enough tub I’d try it.

20: If you could have sex with anyone right now, who would it be?— I think we all know the answer to this. It’s Misha (with approval of his wife because I’m no home-wrecker.)

21: Have you ever had a threesome? If not, would you?— I haven’t, but I’ve always wanted to try one.

22: Do you/would you use sex toys?— Yes.

23: Have you ever sent someone a dirty text/picture?—Text, yes. Picture, no.

24: Would you have sex with your best friend?— I don’t have any real life friends.

25: Is there anything you do after sex? (for example, smoke, eat, drink)—Clean up, pee, and sometimes get a drink.

26: Something that will never fail to get you horny?— Already answered

27: Early morning sex or late night sex?—Late night. I hate mornings.

28: Favourite body part on the opposite sex?— Eyes or smile

29: Favourite body part on the same sex?— Same as above.

30: Something that you have hidden in your room that you don’t want anyone to find:— Haha, probably my vibrator.

31: Weirdest sexual act some has performed [or tried to perform] on/with you:— Not really that weird, but food play.

32: Have you ever tasted yourself? [If no, would you?] [If yes, what did you think?]—Already answered

33: Is it ever okay to not use a condom:— I don’t judge. If you feel safe enough not to use a condom, have at it. Just know the potential consequences beforehand.

34: A food that you would like to use during a sexual experience:— Food play, for me, is annoying. Lol! You end up sticky and smell weird. So I’d say none.

35: Worst possible time to get horny:— When holding your sleeping child. (Don’t read smutty fanfics when trying to get your kid to go to bed…)

36: Do you like it when your sexual partner moans?— Sooooo much! Omg. Yes.

37: How much fapping is too much fapping:— If it interferes with your daily life, then it might be too much. Otherwise, fap as much as you want.

38: Best sexual complement you ever got:— I was told I give the best head of any previous partner.

39: Favorite foreplay activities:— I don’t usually get much foreplay. But I like a lot of kissing, nipple stimulation, and clitoral stimulation. I’m pretty simple.

40: What do you wear to bed?— Sports bra and underwear.

41: When was the first time you masturbated:— Ever or successfully? Ever: Probably 14. Successfully: 21

42: Do you have any nude/masturbating pictures/video of yourself?— God no, I’m not nearly good looking enough for that.

43: Have you ever/when was the last time you had sex outside?— Probably 15 years ago.

44: Have/would you ever have sex in public?— Like, in front of people? No.

45: Have/would you ever had a threesome?— I would love to try it.

46: What is one random object you’ve used to masturbate?— Already answered.

47: Do you watch gay/lesbian porn? why/why not?— I have for “research” for fics I’ve written. Plus lesbians can be pretty hot sometimes.

48: Do you like oral sex? (why/why not)— I’ve only received from someone that didn’t like doing it, so I don’t know. I assume I’d like it if the person doing it was also into it.

49: How do you feel about tattoos on someone you are interested in?— I dig tattoos. They can be really hot.

50: How would you feel about taking someones virginity?— I wouldn’t mind; but I’d wonder why they’d want me to be their first.

51: Is there any food you would NOT recommend using during a sexual encounter?— Off-brand Reddi Whip. It makes your skin smell like vomit.

52: Would you rather be a pornstar or a prostitute?— Probably a prostitute. But a Bunny Ranch one, not street walker.

53: Do you watch porn?— I do.

54: Have you ever been called a freak? Why?— Haha! Yeah. Because I want rough sex more often.

55: Do you feel comfortable going “commando”?— Chafing is a thing. No thanks.

56: Would you have a problem with going down on someone if they hadn’t shaved their pubic hair?— I do it on the regular. So no, not really.

57: If you could give yourself head, would you?— Hehe. Probably.

58: Booty or Boobs?— That depends! Boobs are fun, but Mishas ass is top notch.

59: Have you ever cheated on someone? (Why?)— Almost, but no. I couldn’t go through with it because I think cheating is awful. I still feel bad that I even considered it.

60: If you were the other sex for a day, what are five things you would do?— Helicopter penis. 😂

61: have you ever watched someone masturbate?— My husband did once when he thought I was asleep. But I never have actively watched it.

62: has anyone ever watched you masturbate?— Not exactly. I usually have to “finish the job” after sex. But he doesn’t sit there and watch me do it.

63. Have you ever had an erection and someone noticed?— I don’t have a penis… so no.

64. What is your method of masturbation? (ie. toys, clitorial, prostate)— Clitoral stimulation

65. What is your bra/penis size?Bra: 42F

66. What is the strangest thing you have ever put up your vagina/anus?— I don’t put weird things in me.

67. When was the last time you masturbated?— Already answered

68. When was the last time you had sex?— Ummm.. a couple nights ago.

69. When was the last time you watched porn?— Last week sometime.

70. Have you ever bought a sex toy? If so, which one did you buy last? First sex toy? If not, which one do you plan on buying when you do?— I didn’t buy it, my husband did. It’s a simple pink vibrator. But I really want the Rabbit one.

71. Guys:Circumsized?— Not a dude.

72. Which not-genital part of your body do you like being touched?— Boobies!

73. Which genital part of your body do you like being touched?— Probably my clit. That’s usually nice.

74. Girls:Are you able to achieve orgasm just through breast stimulation?— I don’t think so. But I have come close.

75. Have you anonymously sent a sexual ask to someone on tumblr?— Already answered.

76. When was the last time you have had a wet dream?— A sex dream in which I have an orgasm? It’s been a while. A sex dream where I’m left hanging? A few nights ago.

77. Which wet dream was your favorite?— Ok… I had a Misha dream that I met him at a con and we had brutal, amazing sex in the hotel laundry room. It was intense.

78. Is there a friend you would willingly have sex with?— If I wasn’t married, no. Haha. I don’t have any real life friends to fuck.

79. Is there a celebrity/character you would willingly have sex with?— Bahahahaha… like… maybe? Let’s see here. Let me wrack my brain trying to figure this one out. Um… oh yeah. Misha and Castiel. 😁

80. Favorite sexual position? — This is the same as #5 (Which was previously answered)

81. Do you like being called a slut or whore in bed?— I’ve never had it happen, but I’m not opposed to it.

82. Are you into any BDSM?— Yes and no. I have a claustrophobia issue, so being tied up would make me panic. But a Dom/Sub relationship would be enjoyable.

83. Have you ever wanted to have sex with someone but knew you couldnt for any reason? Why?— Yes, a former friend. I couldn’t because I was married.

84. Do you like dirty talk?— Yaassss!

85. Are you loud or quiet during sex? Masturbation?— Already answered.

86. Have you ever been inturrepted during sex or masturbation? Who/what?— Yes. The phone ringing, someone coming to the door, my son waking up from his nap. And many others.

87. What kind of porn do you like to watch?— Almost anything with lots of foreplay and female attention.

88. Have you ever confessed to someone that you got an erection over them? What about masturbated to them?— No erections because I’m a lady. But I have confessed to a friend of mine that I rubbed one out to them. He was cool with it.

89. Have you ever masturbated because your sexual partner wasn’t there when you needed them?— Yes. Yes I have.

90. Have you ever had a one night stand? Do you still keep in contact with them?— Nope, never.

91. Have you ever had a friends with benefits? Are they still beneficial?— Nope to this one too.

[riting]

The Plumbing Tree by Medium Judith

Sylvan Oswald on The Plumbing Tree

The queer family has a gas leak. A character named Miasma, the voice of the gas itself, narrates its encroaching occupation of what might be an ordinary household. But for Medium Judith, the collaborative experimental theater “host” entity of Amanda Horowitz and Bully Fae Collins, this oddball clan is under siege from within. This is the exhausted American Family Play as civic debacle – the kind in which poisoned water contaminates entire towns, and even air in some public housing is not safe to breathe. The queer theater of Medium Judith, posits that the family play itself may be unfit for consumption.

Polarized politics play out among the queer spawn of Celetta (Flannery Silva) in her pregnant-Orthodox-Jewish-matriarch drag. When the gender nonconforming Yves (Christiane Oyen) proposes a “dragabond” flag with “Islamic aesthetics” for the front lawn, his* sister Jodi, an androgynous nationalist in a pilgrim outfit (the subversively charming Julia Yerger), worries what the neighbors will think. As the argument ensues, the Homer Simpson-eque subletter Lars (Arne Gjelten) and neighbor Augustine (Elizabeth Sonenberg) weigh in. Jodi’s riposte is a shrine to female military veterans decoupaged onto a huge yellow ribbon. Yves fires back, planting his flag with such vigor that a pipe bursts, spewing septic ooze and vapors that put the family in a trance. “A character is best played in a less than conscious state,” intones Miasma as the existential front lawn drips with Shit. The Plumbing Tree is not just a battle over national/personal domestic politics, but over the soul of the well-made-play.

The latter may appear to be of less pressing urgency given our moment in history. However, the American Family Play has often functioned as a referendum on national shame. Whether the revelation is fraud, addiction, abuse, or beyond, our post-Freud playwrights have built structures that reveal the repressed. We can trace this from the likes of Arthur Miller and Lorraine Hansberry through newer plays like Paula Vogel’s And Baby Makes Seven (1993), Brandon Jacobs-Jenkins’s Appropriate (2013), Taylor Mac’s Hir (2014), and Jackie Sibblies-Drury’s Fairview (2018) (and many more – it’s a vast genre).

The Plumbing Tree critiques blind spots within the queer community, such as thinking of ourselves as part of “the solution,” to what ails society. If “perfection is for assholes,” as Taylor Mac says, then with our glorious deviance we hold a space of inclusion, acceptance, and process-as-constant. These are values queer folks ostensibly represent. Yet, Queer is no monolith. We cannot ignore that the white supremacy and institutional oppression that exist in society-at-large exist within our own communities – and our own non-profits as well. It’s all too easy to police the boundaries of otherness.

As the queer family onstage crawls over each other, out of their minds from Miasma’s attack, I saw one lost world inside another. But it didn’t feel like nostalgia. Medium Judith’s The Plumbing Tree ends with a rousing punk number. The cast wrinkles their noses, “and smells the audience as if they smell like shit.” We’re full of it. And it’s time to look it in the face.

*Medium Judith has informed me that the character Yves uses male pronouns while exploring transfemininity but does not yet formally identify that way.

Sylvan Oswald is an interdisciplinary artist who makes plays, texts, publications, and video. He is an Assistant Professor of Playwriting at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film & Television.

Fiona Duncan on The Plumbing Tree

I suffer from claustrophobia in elevators, relationships, discourse, and media. The first act of The Plumbing Tree had right wing vlogging, trans and queer worship, uncouth men as the butt of jokes—hyper contemporary hot topics in the U.S. I was raised in Canada, and in the last 3 years, have come to appreciate how subtly different our nations are, as I witness my age and same ideals proclaiming peers here, in the States, mostly incapable so far, in their shares at least, of imagining true collective difference; their politics tend to be reactionary in content and form (loud, advertorial me meme forms), which is fair-ish re: content (the powers that be are powerful and awful! it's hard out here). But, what if: she who opposes force with counterforce reinforces that which she opposes and is formed by it. Anyway, I was happy when The Plumbing Tree devolved into collective shit, figuratively and figurally. Sewage burst from below the set of the house, like colonial, industrial, and patriarchal history is beyond haunting us now. The stage was brown and mucky and its character all got puke and mad sick from a stink indifferent to their differing identities and ideals.

I refuse to talk about shit with most anyone. I don’t find poo jokes funny. You should leave the room if you’re going to fart. It’s my one prudery; notorious, friends make fun of me for it. And yet I loved The Plumbing Tree’s shit brown metaphor and set, something about it not being just my shit, or your shit, or their shit, but so much shit, a world of shit, made it less cringeworthy, embarrassing, disgusting. This shit was even, refreshing.

Fiona Alison Duncan is an LA-based Can-American writer, bookseller, and organizer. She is the organizing host of Hard to Read, a monthly lit series, and Pillow Talk, community organizing on sex, love, and communication.

Brian Getnick on The Plumbing Tree

For the last year and a half I’ve watched Amanda and Bully’s The Plumbing Tree grow at PAM, from an installation of sculptures and diagrams in the stairwell to public readings of the script and workshop productions of the play. At its recent debut at Highways Performance Space, The Plumbing Tree has blossomed and grown some very bitter fruit.

At Highways, the stage was littered with abstract brown assemblages, a quilted flag and an enormous yellow ribbon adorned with regiments of proud female soldiers. These objects are sculptures that pose as props. They don’t sit meekly in service of the plays narrative; their surfaces are worked with detailed, micro narratives of their own. And, because their material processes are explicit, they also function as psychological prosthetics of the characters that made them. The flag is meticulously quilted by non binary-artist Yves, the soldier ladies are crudely rendered in local color by Jodi, the neocon daughter.

I understood the cartoonishly frenzied energy of the performers as a way to grapple with the fact that the characters they played are more or less composites of ideological signs and symbols that Amanda and Bully have poetically strung together as a script. If one mistakes their competitions, attacks, and craft making with the complexity and paradoxical nature of being it is because we, in our daily rhythmic interface with social media, resemble them.

For instance, the mother, Celetta, wants only the signs and none of the burdens of motherhood: an engorged but hollow belly. Her children appeal to her dreamily as floating potentialities of her creative powers. Celetta: “I saw my children before they were born and they were smoke. And they could be anything.” Celetta resents that her actual children have abandoned their post inside the belly and are beside her warring for attention. In Act III, she pantomimes the agonies of birth to regain it.

When the language in The Plumbing Tree makes a shift away from parody and into a nearly autonomous materiality the characters release word torrents reminiscent of Asher Hartman and Reza Abdoh. This became most evident in the character Jodi, the Pilgrim hatted conservative. The polemics she espouses read like an Antifa passion play. Jodi: “Knock knock, who’s there?, Socialism, Socialism who? Socialism is a failed a system Shame on you America!” Then: “Fuck your faggot prophets. Here my hate has stewed me through. Prosper porridge, pungent forest sow and owl fertilize. Taste my musket, piggy squalor, measles mumps disease deceased repeat repent release your lands and logs in rolling throngs.” The language invites ecstatic interpretation, a song, a scream. It bursts through a  parody of conservative rants and goes down, flung from Jodi’s mouth, into a witch’s cauldron.

In the third act, the performers crawl, they attack, they sing and dance, they blow a cluster of rape whistles and begin a chant. I remembered this line: “An object named is a fish out of water” It seemed to point to what the authors want and don’t want from writing for theater. I spoke with Amanda about this sentence and her answer was (I paraphrase here): that to name a thing is to isolate it from the force that gives the thing movement, agency, breath, and life. But these artists don’t write in a breath of fresh air; it’s a gamey fart that erupts when a flag is staked in the yard breaking open a subterranean sewer. At this rupture, the voice of the fumes bellows forth and the inhabitants that have piled out of the house indulge in a collective hallucination. The shit smell is named Miasma: all powerful language unleashed from the body.

Brian Getnick is an artist, curator and writer about contemporary performance in Los Angeles. He is the director of PAM Residencies, a showcase and residency program for performers making long form work (30+ minutes). He is the founder and co-director with Tanya Rubbak of Native Strategies, a journal documenting performance art in LA since 2011.

The Plumbing Tree happened at Highways on October 19 and 20, 2018.

Medium Judith is a host for an interdisciplinary methodology for writing experimental theater works. The company originated in 2012 in Baltimore, MD with works composed by Bully Fae Collins and Amanda Horowitz. 

Video stills by Pete Ohs.

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Rough notes on how the two shows I have chosen to include in my seminar effected me phenomenologically:

Heads Up:

-          The smoke that came out to accompany his storytelling about the apocalypse, slowly filled the stage and came towards us. It was very visible and emitted a sense of oncoming doom. For somebody with claustrophobia, it was not a good sensation.

-          I could smell the smoke as it came out. As a performer, it made me feel as if I was back on stage with him because the scent was extremely familiar. For a non-performer perhaps, it was an invade of the senses. What would those with asthma have felt? I could also feel the air getting denser, which I’m sure was the purpose. The smoke was there at the beginning, making us happen upon this situation, then it cleared, and afterwards was purposely let out again in coalition with the script.

-          Lighting was completely dark (besides a subtle theatre light shining just on him) with one candle in front of him which gave it an intimate feel, also setting up that “telling stories around a campfire” atmosphere.

He has four lights on the table pointing at his face and another in front of it to point at the audience. He is controlling (or at least gives the impression that he is) these lights and sounds. This contradicted the doomed feeling, making me feel secure due to the fact that he was so obviously controlling the story and effects he was weaving for us, we were in safe hands.

At one point he changes the lighting colours to blue, and then to a warmer yellow…why did he do this? What does it mean? He paired it with certain parts of the stories he was telling to enhance or contradict the effect of his words.

At another point, the lighting comes up on the audience, to expose us, or to further make us feel included?

-          He made us feel included with his use of language and unwavering eye contact. His tone of voice was almost always accusatory, making me feel as if I was owning up to something I had done. The language used also made me feel connected (a step further than just included) to the characters as if they were either myself, or I related to them on a personal level. He struck the balance between talking in the second person and the first person, snapping between speaking of the character (you) and snapping into the character.

He used the word “you” a lot at the start of his sentences (as mentioned above). This was the same psychological tactic used in 1914 by Lord Kitchener, with the sign: “Your Country Needs YOU.”

-          He changed his physicality very subtly, almost unnoticeably during the performance as he switched characters. It was subtle but prominent making me feel as if I’d noticed something that others hadn’t. It also made it less theatrical and more real (or present) by him not being over the top with his movements.

-          He used sound (which he played and stopped himself) during certain parts of the narratives to enhance the atmosphere already being created by his words and lighting.

He played with the use of both sound and silence to get what he wanted out of us. The sound became part of both the story and the present moment in that theatre. For example: *soundscape playing* “The video on the laptop stalls. Then buffers.” *soundscape stops* *there is a slight pause* *soundscape plays again* “Then plays again���” And he carries on with his line.

-          He had a well-trained voice and used it very well. It was resonant, inviting and full of energy, it felt like he was bursting to get out of his seat and say what he had to say or he would explode. This was infectious.

-          The fact of him having the tech board up on the stage, brought about transparency to his performance. With perceived transparency, we tend to be more open to trusting what comes afterwards. It gave the performance (which was very honest about being a performance) a certain authenticity and live (or literal) presence. I was more susceptible to getting lost in the world he was creating around us (disregarding scepticism) because he made no illusions about where he was and who he was.

-          His energy and commitment rubbed off on me (and many others from what I have heard). It ignited a spark because of the way he told this story, which did not just make me want to hear it again but made me feel compelled to retell it myself. I wanted to perform it, (this may just be subject to people who are performers themselves however). Because he used his techniques so effectively, I felt the need to pass the experience onto others.

 Blag Queen Café:

-          A few people I spoke to that were sitting at the café tables in the middle of the stage partaking in the interaction with the two performers, thought it was the best show they had ever been in (seen) and was, consequently their favourite of the night.

For myself, sitting on the outskirts (not involved in the action) it felt as if I was going through a critical range of thoughts rather than just experiencing it.

It gave me time to observe from the outside, to pull it apart as it was happening. It simultaneously felt like a voyeuristic experience, whilst I also felt a little left out. I wanted to join the action, whilst at the same time being quite content observing from the side-lines.

As well as watching the two performers, I found myself also watching the audience sitting at the café tables, observing their reactions and taking in what they were doing. The audience (in the café) became part of the performance, and the performers for me.

-          They had three different realities running at once, (reality number one) the one in the theatre they were performing in, (reality number two) the one in the café in which they were coming up with ideas, and (reality number three) the one in their heads where they’d make the ideas come to life and try them out. With all of these happening at once, it made me feel as if I was caught in the middle of creating as well as discovering the piece. This is something architects have described themselves as feeling when they design a building, or scientists have described the way our brains work when we dream.

-          I did initially have the thought, “why are they pretending to be in a café? I know they’re not in a café having this conversation.” However, as the piece went along and I saw (or observed) what they were doing, it seemed really clever. They were getting right in the middle of the process of creating a theatre piece and exposing that to us, rather than just showing us the finished product as would have been seen in traditional theatre. Their finished project was the unfinished project, it could be said.

-          The parts in which I saw “reality number three” and they performed the ideas they discussed as if they were imagining them (and we were seeing them), had a similar effect on me phenomenologically as Heads Up did, when Kieran Hurley, would switch between speaking in the second person to the first person and vice-versa.

-          How does it affect members of the audience differently if they are interacted with vs. not interacted with, or in on the action vs. watching from the side-lines behind the “forth wall”?

In general, I found that, audience members that had been watching from the side-lines were more prone to critically analysing the piece they had just seen. I wonder whether this was to compensate for the fact that they were perceived to have had less of a phenomenological experience than others.

Audience members that had been interacted with (most of the time, in the moments immediately after the performance) threw critical analysis out the window, focusing purely on the phenomenological experience they had had, and favouring this show above the others.

There is something about immersive theatre (done well) that forces most to be present and engage with the piece at hand, gaging a stronger reaction, whether that be, “it was absolutely terrible, I hated it” or “it was absolutely brilliant, I loved it!” It singles out the audience in a way and, not allowing them the comfort of hiding behind the “forth wall”.

In, Blag Queen Café, I personally felt as if the presence of audience behind the forth-wall wasn’t acknowledged altogether. This, of course, is normal in most traditional theatre. However, having a large section of the audience that were a big part of the show created a new dynamic. We were seeing what we could have had but didn’t have, it was being dangled in front of us. I felt the fact that I was behind the forth wall a lot more than I normally would have. It was as if, as a collective, everyone was pretending we were not there. There was a small part of me, that strangely felt as if I shouldn’t be there and I was doing something wrong. I believe it would have been very interesting if at some point, they had acknowledged us. The performers did this, in the show, Give Me Your Love, and I automatically felt a scary sense of responsibility. I was forced to own up to the fact that I was sitting in a dark room watching these people.

-          The lighting and sound were very well done, aiding the journey of the show. It worked to pull me into the action and cause me to forget the fact that I was that member of the audience watching from the side-lines. It held my attention and with each unexpected change, it surprised me and refreshed me. The piece didn’t seem to set out to be massively unpredictable, yet at the same time, it definitely was not predictable…this fact kept it interesting.

-          Their style of writing and the way they communicated with each other made me feel involved in a different way. Watching the relationship they had with each other, reminded me of relationships I have with other people. It was relatable and made me feel a part of the show at least on that level, whilst still maintaining the voyeuristic sense that comes with hiding behind the forth-wall.

-          To amplify this sense voyeurism mixed with a literal presence was the coffee smell that came with part of their piece.

-          When they gave the audience at the café tables scripts to read, it triggered both curiosity and slight frustration within me, as I really wanted the unseen to be revealed.

From my relaxed place, I also felt a sense of trust that all would be revealed in due course. Hearing all of these different voices read the same script was beautiful and intriguing. This was because I was seeing the audience members as performers too. The fact that these audience members did not know what was supposed to happen in the show and were just going along with it, gave the piece a raw and authentic edge.

-          The way the café itself was set up, almost reminded me of one in France and thus transported me there.

The lamp shade they used hanging over the tables was a clever way of bringing the audience out of the theatre space in Crewe and to the café in their minds.

They did not however attempt to pretend that they were not in a theatre space in Crewe. As the show went on, they used certain aspects of their tech to remind the audience of where they were. This removed my scientism, just as Heads Up did.

-          Daisy has sent me the link to the blog for their show which I plan to look at to help with creating my seminar: http://daisyandnicole.tumblr.com/